


love, sometimes, ends (forever may it come again)

by KaelsMiscellany



Series: Beggar the Heart and Make it Crawl [4]
Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Aleks gets hurt, Alina still has taste, And Nikolai...is a bit more than expected, Bloodplay, F/M, M/M, More tags/characters to be added later, Multi, Reincarnation, in the words of the great ronald weasley 'you're gonna suffer but you'll be happy about it', let's get criminal criminal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-10-26 09:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20739689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: The road to immortality is long and hard, moreso for those already on it.For now, however, there is parting, and long hoped for meetings and reunions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Much like Hungry and Severe, this was not the sequel Intended to write. But I finished reading Deathless (another Valente book, and one of my favorites) and well, there were ideas, and a lot of yelling at various people. And here we are.
> 
> (still managing my streak of titles from that Valente quote...)

_ They tell tales of how, five hundred years ago, the Queen of Saints walked the world. How she was so beautiful that the shadows took notice, that Ravka herself made a prince so handsome and charming that the Queen stayed and blessed Ravka for her gift. _

-

In a village that had once been called Dva Stolba, but now bore the name of Ulaan, a woman sits by a window and knits, poorly—everyone in town knows she is not as good at making things as her husband, but they never say it to her.

Her hair is white, but despite that, everything about her speaks of youth. The other women of the village sometimes pester and prod her about it, but have otherwise learned to accept it. _ Alina Kostya, always lovely as a spring day. _

Sunlight pours through the window, and despite herself she glows right back. A glow that grows and shrinks depending on her irritation.

All but a sun herself she looks up from her tangle with a snarl to stare out the window. The garden her and her second husband keep is flourishing, despite the best efforts of the goats their neighbor keeps. Bees drone everywhere, the sound soothing. As she looks, one goat attempts to leap the fence. When it makes it, she sends it right back over with a flick of a bare wrist and a flare of light. It bleats in displeasure.

Rolling her eyes, she gives up on her knitting and, letting it fall into its basket, she stands. Going to the kitchen she turns on the stove to heat water for tea, she finds herself debating on whether to make her own dinner tonight or go to the tavern for both food and company—being around these people makes it easier for her to pretend, and she is lonely too.

From the window an unearthly chorus of shrieks sound. The goats panic in response and the bees still, though they are the only ones to do so. A few seconds after the shrieking ends there is a pounding at the door.

Sighing Alina pulls down a second mug, then goes to answer the door—the closer she gets the more she feels every one of her ancient years, every ounce of her pain, every inch of her sorrow. There is only one visitor that pounds so.

“Stanislava,” she greets when she opens the door.

“Mama,” her daughter replies. She does not look like light, like her mother, or darkness, like her father; but like iron. Gray hair pulled back into a long braid, gray eyes that glint like ice, gray clothes that make her look as if she’s from the government—in a way she is, no matter what the regime—even the car behind her is gray and menacing. “Will you let me in?”

Alina steps aside and gestures. “I’ve just started tea.”

Stanislava gives a smile that wants to be like sunlight, but her teeth are sharp as iron spikes and too fearsome.

Not that Alina has ever been afraid.

They settle in the kitchen and Alina pours the water, letting the aroma of good Ravkan tea fill the silence between them. Alina lets her voice soon follow. “You’re looking well.” Stanislava always does however, her purpose filling her up.

“You as well, mama. Did you get the ducks you said you would last time?” Stanislava accepts the mug of tea Alina hands her, the steam coming off it vanishing the moment Stanislava touches it.

So they converse, dancing over all the heartache between them.

They spend so long dancing that Alina is worn down by it after a few hours. “You should go, before your father gets home.” Even after all this time Alina can forgive much, Aleksander not much at all.

“He won’t be home for a while yet,” Stanislava says.

Sunlight flares from Alina as she sighs. “What did you do?” Although she prefers it to them fighting. Ulaan is a good place, and she’d hate to see it in ruins. She can try to spare it that at least.

Corpselight echoes from Stanislava as she shrugs. “A landslide across the road. A terrible bit of luck from Marozk, but nothing a few hours work won’t fix.” It could have been worse, Alina supposes. She dislikes it anyways, even if it would mean death and destruction she wants Aleksander here to hold her. To have that old comfort.

“Still, you should go, daughter.” Alina still loves her, but she can only be around her youngest for so long; before the weight of all that’s happened drags her down as much as the verbal dance does. Makes her thin and prone to lashing out. The fights between Stanslava and Aleksander might be destructive, but Alina fears to know what might happen if she and her daughter clashed.

Downing the rest of her tea, Stanislava stands—Alina finds herself noticing the glaze on the mug is cracked now—and bending down kisses Alina’s cheek. It burns like metal in winter. “Until next time, mama.” The door closes behind her and soon after the sound of grinding wings fills the air, setting the goats off again.

Her bones creak as Alina stands, and she totters over to the sink, putting both the mugs in it. It feels like it takes a century itself to get to the bedroom. The bed welcomes her with open arms when she does however, and curling under the thin sheets, Alina cries herself to sleep.

-

_ Alina dreams of the past, of the decade of grief—she wishes her daughter would not be so cruel sometimes. _

_ She is crying in bed here as well. In a way she is always crying. Both the nobles and peasants both see this as Good and Right however, a Queen should always mourn the loss of her King. Even one so blessed and saintly as Alina. _

_ Quiet footsteps reach her ears, and she turns towards them. Her heart aching for the one she lost, for the one who remains and aches as much as she does. _

_ “Mama?” _

_ The ache in Alina’s heart fractures, and her crying grows. _

_ A hand like ice rests on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, mama!” Pain fills Stasya’s voice, even if she does not understand Alina’s grief, it hurts her. “I waited as long as I could! But uncle Kolya isn’t like us.” _

Isn’t Grisha,_ a cruel Darkling-like slice of her heart murmurs. _ Isn’t tied to the making of the world. _ “I know, Stasya.” Rolling over feels as if it takes all her strength. Stasya’s kneeling next to the bed, her expression distressed. It’s strange to see her daughter looking so _ old_, even Kostya and Raya do not look as old as her. “That doesn’t mean I wish you hadn’t.” _

_ “I know, mama.” Stasya doesn’t cry, not anymore, but her voice sounds like she wants to. _

_ Alina brushes her own tears away, reaching out and stroking Stasya’s cheek. “Will you come for me eventually, my little death?” _

_ Stasya shakes her head violently, sending her unkempt gray here everywhere. “Even if you wanted me to I couldn’t, mama. You’ve already worn the path of your life so deep that when I swing to harvest, I miss even your head. We’ve all gone so deep that the heartbeat of the world rattles in our bones and keeps us moving, even when our own hearts refuse to.” _

_ “But not Nikolai?” Anger fills Alina’s voice. “Not my _ lisitsa_?” It’s not _ fair, _ not _ right_. That she is more important than him, even as she is worshiped as a Saint and Queen. _

_ It is a different sort of pain and grief to see her daughter still, not expecting such cruelty from her mother. “Not yet,” Stasya whispers. _

_ Darkness floods the room before Alina has the chance to ask. “Get out,” Aleksander’s voice is as brittle as glass. _

_ “Papa…” _

_ “Get out!” Shapes begin to form in the shadows, and Alina acts before he can do anything too awful—she already has to bury a husband, she will _ not _ bury as daughter as well. _

_ Sunlight and shadow clash, and when they both fade Stasya is gone. _

_ "She’s your _ daughter!” _ Alina shrieks. It’s too much, too much. Not even the grief over Mal had destroyed her this much. _

_ Aleksander comes to her, wrapping her in his embrace, clinging to her tightly. “She _ was _ our daughter, Alina.” He kisses her temple, as if that will make his words right. “She’s a monster now, and Nikolai’s _ dead _ because of her.” _

_ Alina digs her fingers deep into the heavy wool of his kefta. “He would have died eventually.” Seventy years together was perhaps more than she could have ever asked for, more than she’d ever expected. Even if it feels awful to even think to herself. _

_ “I would have found…” _

_ “No,” Alina interrupts. “You know he would not have wanted that, not with what it might have demanded in return.” _

_ He says nothing. But clings even more tightly to her, his tears staining her dress. _

-

She awakes to the sound of soft footsteps, and even if there hasn’t been an assassination attempt on her since she was a child—she is old enough now to think her first two centuries as her childhood—she tenses. They continue however and she relaxes, she knows those footsteps.

Drawing light to her she calls out. “Sasha?”

Footsteps pause, and she hears his soft sigh. “I’d hoped not to wake you, Alina.”

She shakes her head fondly, throwing off the blankets she stands and goes to him in the kitchen, wrapping him in a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re home safe. How was the trip?”

“Well, except for the landslide at the end.” He bows down to kiss her right under the ear. “Igor was a bore as always, but his gift for bartering never fails.” He kisses her cheek. “I brought you a new dress.” He kisses her lips. “It’s blue.”

Her fingers bury into the thickness of his hair as she smiles. “It’s been some time since I wore blue.” It seems everything today is determined to remind her of Nikolai in a way. There have always been days like that, the only change is that time has stretched them farther and farther apart. “I should hope that’s not the _ only _ thing you got, otherwise I’d question Igor’s supposed ‘gift.’”

Aleksander laughs. “Much more besides,” he confirms. Kissing her again he lifts her up. “All far more practical than a dress.”

Now she’s the one laughing, wrapping her arms and legs around him as he carries her to the bed. “I quite like practical things.” It’s almost a play between the two of them now, the lines so very familiar to her.

“Which is why I give you such _ im_practical things.” The smile he gives, however, is wan.

He turns and sits on the bed, her in his lap. When she pushes at his shoulders he moves and she rewards him by rubbing against him, their clothes creating rough friction. “I missed you.” Bending down, she kisses him. Feels his hands settle on her waist, warm and long as they push up her shirt.

“I missed you too, _ solnishka_,” he murmurs against her lips.

Clothes are thrown every which way as they become a tangle of limbs and sighs.

-

It is a week later and Alina is in the market square, shopping for various things.

A rumbling sound draws the attention of everyone, herself included. A few minutes later a car pulls into Ulaan by the one paved road in and out of town. Most people stare, but Alina’s seen sights more strange than sleek cars before—it’s bothersome that she has to get the attention of her neighbors when she wants something, however.

Behind her car doors open and close, and men’s voices fill the air.

“I would much prefer us to be in Ravka proper, sir.” It’s a deep voice, though there’s a sharpness to it.

Rich laughter fills the air and Alina finds herself stilling under the sound of it, fingers halfway to grabbing an apple. “Nazyalensky,” the name slices through Alina’s heart. “I don’t understand how you can have such a temper, and yet be such a stick in the mud. Anyways, this is _ practically _ Ravka, ergo, someone must have at least a half-decent ounce of Vodka. Though I hope for a bit more.” The rhythm of the second man’s voice makes her want to turn and look at him.

Squeezing her eyes shut she resists.

“Your sister is going to murder me,” the first man says.

More laughter from the second. “You’re practically Lebed’s favorite Grisha, I doubt she’ll actually kill you.”

A deep sigh. “You’ve more faith in her than I do, sir.”

Alina finds she doesn’t want to, but if she wants eggs she’s going to have to turn and cross the square, which will give her a view of the men. It almost makes her wish she still had the ducks Stanislava had asked after the other day.

Sighing she braces herself, perhaps she’ll be lucky and both men only sound handsome.

It’s easy enough to spot the two of them. Even if one of them weren’t in an army uniform, they would stand out, simply by being strangers to Ulaan. The one in the uniform is tall, and has the look of a Suli about him, just barely she can see glimmers of red and blue thread at the collar of his uniform—so he must be the one who spoke first.

Which makes the man whose voice caught her so the stockier of the two. His golden-brown hair glimmers in the light as he bends down to hear Pytor say something. His clothes look Shu, though his features—or at least the ones she can see—are pure Ravkan.

She sees Pytor look around, then point at her. She narrows her eyes, but Pytor is of the age where the ire of those ‘younger’ than him doesn’t bother.

Perhaps she should have fled to the safety of the inn, or hidden herself away—although she hasn’t used her powers in so flashy a way in some time—instead it’s as if she’s glued to the spot as the two men approach. “Alina Kostya?” the stocky one asks, this close she can tell he’s only a few inches taller than her. “I’ve been told you have the best vodka in town.”

His eyes are achingly familiar hazel, it’s enough to make her want to cry.

Instead she rolls her shoulders, meeting his gaze sharply. “I might,” she answers. “Who wants to know?” 

The bow he gives is ostentatious. “Nikolai Bosch.” He rises and gives a charming smile. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Alina’s grateful she’s holding a basket, it both hides the fact that her hand wishes to curl into a fist, and prevents her from actually punching him as well. “No,” she replies. It’s harder than she thinks it would be to bite back the smile that wishes to cross her face. Even as the reason why aches some.

Bosch’s—he is only _ a _ Nikolai, not _ her _ Nikolai—companion brays with laughter as Bosch’s face falls. It’s quite satisfying.

-

In the end she does bring them to her house however—Pyotr isn’t wrong about the vodka.

“Sasha,” she calls out as they all step into the garden. “We have guests.” She’s afraid and eager to know Aleksander’s reaction, to know his thoughts when they are alone. Perhaps they truly have Nikolai back after a fashion, perhaps she’s only fooling herself. Perhaps the worst idea of all is that she _ is _ fooling herself, and that Aleksander will fool himself alongside her.

Aleksander steps out of his workshop and behind her she can hear Bosch mutter something to himself—she almost wishes she knew what. Still, it’s enough to make her try and look through Aleksander through a stranger’s eyes. Tall and pale as always, his dark hair flecked with sawdust—reminding her of the night sky—gray eyes assessing. His work clothes are plain, no more kefta for him, not in quite some time. Handsome, certainly, although far more earthly than she ever recalls him being when they first met.

“Gentlemen, this is my husband Aleksander Ivanovich.” She inclines her head. “Sasha, these are Ivan Nazyalensky, and Nikolai Bosch.” It is infinitesimal, but she sees the way the name makes Aleksander still as she had. Even after five hundred years it’s a common name, but that doesn’t stop the small seed of hope.

-

It is much later in the evening. Above her Aleksander groans as his hips thrust once more, warmth filling her as he orgasms. His arms give out and he falls onto her, she recovers quickly however, and their bodies shift slightly, slotting together with ease.

She cards her fingers through his hair as his breathing slows to match hers. “What do you think, then?” She finally asks, broaching the subject lingering over them like smoke.

His own breath tickles her neck. “I do not know, Alina.” Despite his words his voice trembles. “I wish it to be true, but I have walked the world twice as long as you, I cannot recall such a thing happening. How can it be him?”

“It’s Nikolai,” she reminds. Absently her hand moves down to trace the scars on his back, lingering on the dog on his shoulder. “He enjoyed doing impossible things, and it would be just like him to make us wait.”

The sound Aleksander makes is somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

She soothes as his grief overcomes him, the wound is still fresh for the both of them. He’d warned her about it, all the way back at the beginning. But neither of them had perhaps truly expected Nikolai to become as important to them has he had—if for different reasons.

“Perhaps we should follow him.” It’s not a suggestion Alina makes lightly. They haven’t been to Os Alta since they had grandchildren. She doesn’t even know what the city is like anymore.

“What if you’re wrong?” Aleksander buries his face in her hair, as if that will be enough to protect his heart.

“Then we mourn again, and find somewhere new to live.”

-

Os Alta is nothing like she remembers; which is likely as it should be, it’s been almost three hundred years since she was last here after all.

They do not begin their search for Bosch right away, although part of her wants to. Instead they are drawn inwards, old scars aching in the summer sun.

The Grand Palace is only half of what it used to be, quite literally in fact. The half that remains is the seat of the government, men and women in gray suits rushing around, both inside and out. And only a short walk away is the Little Palace.

Unlike the Grand, it is as Alina remembers it. Although it is no longer a school for Grisha, but a museum. A one-eyed woman watches the two of them like a hawk as Aleksander runs his fingers over the carvings and insets. She doubts they are the same ones he made, ages and ages ago, but they _ look _as they should.

They walk around the Little Palace in quiet, for a time. “Do you want to go inside?” They don’t even need to brave the woman, with long forgotten ease her fingers find the right flower and press softly. The secret door opening with more of a screech than a whisper. Soft, bemused laughter leaves her.

“No,” Aleksander shakes his head. “It will not be the same.”

No, it will not. Nothing ever is.

It’s a bit more work to get the door shut than it was to open, but she manages, and they head back into Os Alta proper.

“Where do we even begin to look?” She loops her arm through his own. Not minding a jot that the both of them stand out some, her hair alone has that effect; but their clothes certainly help. The both of them ignore the scant stares, this can’t be the first time tourists have wandered Os Alta aimlessly. A pang goes through her at that thought, this used to be _ her _ city and now she is a stranger to it.

She feels the familiar crawl of darkness around them, and soon enough there are not stares at all. She lets him do it, although if anyone notices it will draw even more attention to them. Doubtful that there has been another shadow-summoner since him and Baghra.

“He was quite insistent that he was an ambassador, and a good one at that. I’m sure there are still places the likes of him work. Perhaps we should have gone into the Palace.”

He has a point, but much like him with the Little, she is afraid to go inside the Grand, to see how much it has changed since she last walked its ostentatious halls. A sigh leaves her. “Then we ask, yes? If he is half as good as he claims people are likely to know of him. Though that will require people seeing us again, Sasha,” she teases lightly.

A duck of his head and a sigh, and they are visible to everyone again.

Raising herself up she kisses him. “Our hotel room, two hours. We can be as unseen as we like then.” She scrapes her fingers down his neck.

Aleksander muffles his laughter in her hair. “Two hours,” he agrees. Pressing a kiss to her head he pulls away. “Until then.” With an ease she has still not quite mastered he vanishes into the crowd.

Sighing Alina gets down to it.

Only twenty minutes later is she given an address by a shopkeeper; one who’d shaken his head, tutted, and given her a pitying look afterwards.

Alina narrows her eyes at him, but goes. She’s suffered far worse than pity.

It is not a house, hotel, or apartment as she expected, but a school.

Curiosity begins to push her along now as well. The school appears a bit run down, but at least someone’s tried to put in the effort to keep it presentable enough. And when she steps inside she can faintly hear the chatter of children and teachers. Entering the office she sees a woman sitting behind a desk, the typewriter clattering furiously as she works.

Clearing her throat Alina catches the woman’s attention, brilliant green eyes looking at her from behind glasses. “Yes?” There’s even still a bit of a Kaelish accent in the woman’s voice.

“I’m looking for Nikolai Bosch?” Alina gives her best smile.

The woman looks her up and down, before understanding flickers across her face. “I’m sure you’ve come quite a long way, dear. And I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you this, but whatever you and Mr. Bosch had didn’t mean much to him. He’s a playboy and has already forgotten your name, most likely.” The understanding turns to pity. “Best go on back to your family, if you need help paying for the train I can give you a little money.”

Alina has to laugh, which seems to flabbergast the woman—good.

Luckily their conversation doesn’t need to go beyond that, because Bosch himself steps into the office. His eyes widen in surprise when he sees Alina, but it’s soon replaced by that ever-charming grin. “Alina Kostya! Dare I hope you’ve changed your mind and left that disgustingly handsome husband of yours?” He gives a florid bow and snatches up her hand to kiss the back of it.

The woman behind the desk has a bit of a fish look about her. She eventually does collect herself, clearing her throat to catch Bosch’s attention. “Your sister wants to see you, sir.”

“Of course,” he heaves a sigh. “But first you will tell me where you are staying, yes?” He directs the question at Alina. “And I shall come and visit at the first chance.”

“We’d like that,” Alina replies.

-

It’s a week later and Alina is almost afraid of how...easy it is to fall back on old patterns she’d thought long gone.

She wakes slowly, her body a part of a tangle of limbs that has her warm and saited in her bones. Opening her eyes she sees Nikolai—aching twines with the warmth—with Aleksander sprawled on his other side, both of them fast asleep. It’s not perfect, but perhaps it’s for the best that it’s not.

There had been a delightful sort of strangeness to their first night together, _ this _ Nikolai not being _ that _ Nikolai. Easier going, less inclined to bruise or bite. It had thrown Aleksander more than her, but he had her to make up for the lack. Even so, she’d held back for Nikolai’s sake. She and Aleksander would have time enough alone when Nikolai leaves. Time enough to remind Aleksander who rules, that his freedom is at her discretion. Hmmm, perhaps she should blindfold him, that was always a bit of fun…

“They must be devious thoughts, if the glint in your eye is anything to go by.” Nikolai’s voice scatters her thoughts.

Alina blinks at him for a slow second, her mind taking it’s time in figuring out what he actually said. She does laugh softly though. “I was thinking about last night.” True enough.

Nikolai’s grin is satisfied as he turns fully onto his side to face her. “I’ll admit, I’ve had fun tumbles with more than a few married women, but this is the first time I’ve had a wife _ and _ husband. Usually if the husband finds out they just try to kill me.” His hand reaches out and his fingers graze her skin, tracing out the dark veins against her pale skin.

“I’m glad we’re your first _ something_,” she teases back. There is a delight to it though, that they have some claim to him that none others had before. “And I’m glad you’ve survived so long.” She reaches out as well, hand settling over his heart. “Our lives would be much less interesting without you in it.”

“Mmm, with flattery like that how can I not?” He shifts closer. “There’s a party tomorrow, a fundraiser for Lebed’s school. I’d likely enjoy it much more if you were there on my arm?” He has the decency to make it an actual question.

She stretches, the blanket falling away from her. Another soft laugh leaves her when his eyes lower to oogle her breasts. “I could be persuaded.”

He grins. “A task I’m delighted to take on.”

When he disappears under the covers she gives a brighter laugh, one that turns into a delighted shriek when his mouth settles on her cunt.

Cooler fingers graze her stomach and up her breasts, gray eyes watching intently as Nikolai brings her to orgasm over and over again until she’s weak from it.

-

A few hours later she’s stepping into a dress shop that Nikolai had suggested when she’d asked over breakfast—the clothes she’d brought are sufficient for travel and going about town, none are quite suited for a fancy party.

“Can I help you, miss?” The woman behind the counter asks.

“I need a dress for a party tomorrow.” Alina’s almost glad the dresses she used to wear have long been out of fashion. She hadn’t known any different at the time; but now she thinks them beautiful, if heavy and unwieldy. 

The woman gives her a look up and down, eyes assessing. “Then let’s get looking.”

-

Two hours later Alina returns to her hotel room, dress neatly folded away in the bag she carries. She’d also managed to find a jewelers and picked up a few baubles. Nothing so ostentatious as the emerald she’d once worn—absently she wonders where it’d gone to—but they’d do.

Aleksander looks up from his drawing as she enters. “Good hunting?”

“Yes,” she grins and steps into the bathroom to change, wanting to surprise him.

The silk of the dress rasps against her skin, and the knee-length cut feels almost audacious. She doesn’t bother with her hair or jewelry, no need to show off to the man who knows her best. Stepping out into the room she does a little twirl, feeling the beads move and shift with her.

“Like sunlight on the water, _ moi solnishka_,” he rasps.

When she looks at him she sees black hunger in his gaze. An answering smile curls on her lips as she goes to him. His fingers bury themselves into the fabric of her dress, and he rucks it up as she straddles his lap. “I’m glad you enjoy it, _ lyubimets_.” It only takes a few seconds of focus to heat her hands up, worth it to hear his hiss as she touches him.

“They won’t be able to stop watching you,” his voice is steady despite his squirming. Fingers shift from her dress to her skin. Only resting there, seeming to marvel that they can touch her at all.

Her hands move up to cup his cheeks, and even as his face leans into the almost searing heat of them his fingers flinch. “I know,” she answers, an old note of distaste in her voice. It has been a long time since she needed to parade herself like this, and she’s _ enjoyed _ it. Yet it seems in the way of Nikolai’s she can refuse little—her heart aches to think that it _ is _ her Nikolai, somehow brought back, if different. Staysa’s words from lifetimes ago echoes in her mind. _ “Not yet.” _

Aleksander pulls her closer. “Why should they not?” He murmurs, twisting to kiss the center of her palm. “You are a queen and a Saint besides, no amount of time can change that. It is only right that they stare and wonder and worship.”

“I know,” she repeats. “But I can still want to be a young woman who wants only a simple life with simple pleasures.”

His sigh feels hotter than her own hands. “You have had that life a hundred times over now, and we’ve been happy. But did it satisfy? Truly?”

She kisses him in lieu of an answer. He is right, but it does irritate some. Even after all this time, there is a still a different golden-haired boy, whose name is still a sliver in her heart. Sometimes it whispers that as much as she wants that simplicity she’ll never have it, not with the choices she’s made.

Alina’s not sure she could’ve made any different ones, however.

She lets her teeth draw blood, drinking down both it and his moans. When she pulls away she wears that blood like lipstick. “Bow to me Sasha, Aleksander, husband. Worship me.”

The world around them grows darker as he throws himself onto her mercies.

-

It’s not that things begin to go _ wrong _ when she and Nikolai arrive at the venue for the fundraiser. It’s just that she perhaps hadn’t planned for the location.

That being one of her old churches.

Hiding her shock is easy however. “This isn’t what I expected,” she tells him as they enter. On the whole she’s thankful that it’s not an old church to Alina the Mother—she doesn’t think she could bear to look at any of her children—but to one for Alina the Summoner. The warrior who fought the Darkling, who helped win the war against Fjerda ages ago.

Whomever owns it now has kept the murals. The one where the altar once was particularly arresting: an Alina from forever ago, brown hair aglow with light, her golden kefta almost blinding, amplifiers gilded and pale. Facing off against the shadowy mass representing, well, whatever terror one wished, she supposed. Behind the false Alina an even darker shadow belled out, frightening in it’s own right.

“Lebed enjoys history, and reminding people that Grisha are a part of Ravka’s roots, have been for as long as we can remember.” Nikolai shrugs. “Honestly I’m surprised that Os Alta didn’t riot when this place was decommissioned.”

Alina doesn’t see the former as a bad thing. The latter does terrify in a way, that, even five hundred years later, they still pray to Saint Alina. She shakes her head, and focuses on more important things. “You _ will _ introduce us today,” she responds primly. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you putting it off.” It’d been quite amusing the way he’d bend backwards to keep from having to introduce them to his sister.

It earns her a laugh. “No, I don’t suppose it has, _ devotchka_. But yes, I will. Saints above help me.” He wraps an arm around her waist. Outside evening is falling, but he feels sun warmed against her. “First, we have to do a little mingling.”

“Putting it off,” she murmurs as he pulls her towards an older couple.

She goes with it though, smiling and performing her role as Nikolai’s charmed date. It’s easy as breathing now, easy enough that she wonders in the back of her mind what these people would do if she proved to them she was the same woman as the one in the murals surrounding them. She won’t of course. Aleksander is right that the ‘simple’ life hasn’t satisfied as she wants, but she doesn’t want that fawning worship she used to get either.

This isn’t quite the happy medium however. The people here seeming to find her ‘country’ manners a patronizing delight. Alina just eats the small snacks and drinks her champagne. As annoying as these potential donors are, she’s faced off against worse.

Alina does however excuse herself after an hour or so, stepping away from the milling crowd towards one of the side chapels.

Soft laughter leaves her when she realizes she’s left one lover for another, the electric lights casting a mural of Aleksander in harsher lines than seems right. A tray of unlit candles sits before it, and even knowing it will do nothing she reaches out and lights them. They make the image seem a little softer and alive.

Her musing makes her shake her head, turning from the mural she looks around, surprised to see a map of the world painted on the other side. She lets her gaze dance over it with passing interest. Ravka takes center stage, painted lovingly in blues and golds, above it is Fjerda in gray, below Shu Han in red, and Kerch in black.

Across the First Sea is the Wandering Isle in green and Novy Zem in orange. Except...she frowns as she realizes that the Wandering Isle is also done in blue and gold.

“When we were booking this place the Chaykovsky’s claimed they have the most accurate map of the world outside of the Ravkan war room,” a familiar woman’s voice says next to her.

Turning her head slightly Alina sees Rose, the secretary who had tried to ‘help’ her when she’d been seeking Nikolai. “I didn’t realize Ravka had claimed the Wandering Isle.” There had always been a push and pull with Fjerda and Shu Han over the north and south borders, but Ravka had never reached so far west. Now that she’s looking she sees that near the Isle, Novy Zem is done in lines of orange and blue.

“About twenty years ago now.” Rose shrugs. “Your little town must have been _ very _ backwater if you hadn’t even known.”

Alina lets the slight go with ease. Searching she feels a strange hint of delight to see that, for all their claims of ‘accuracy’ the map still calls her town Dva Stolba, and not Ulaan—perhaps they had done it out of respect for the Saint. “There,” she points. “Very backwater, as you say.” Alina sees nothing wrong in that. “Why take the Isle?” 

“To help with the war effort,” Rose’s tone suggests that Alina should know that. “Easier to reach Novy Zem that way.”

Old habits have Alina concealing her start with an illusion. “Why…”

Before she can get any more out, however, Nikolai is there. An easy smile on his face, but Alina can also see the faint tension around his eyes. “There you are, darling.” She goes when he pulls her to him again. “Rose, I believe your husband is looking for you.”

Alina has the sense of mind to wait until after Rose is gone before speaking—Nikolai, she’s sure, didn’t just ‘happen’ upon them. “Ravka’s at war? With Novy Zem?” She can’t quite fathom it. What reason is there? Novy Zem has always traded with Ravka, always willing to make new deals—even with the Kerch breathing down their necks. Alina knows she’s missed much since she and Aleksander hid away, but she didn’t think they could have missed _ this_.

Nikolai presses her against the wall, bending down to whisper in her ear. “People who ask too many questions, especially about the war, tend to disappear, _ devotchka_.” He nuzzles her throat as if they’re having a tryst. “You’ve already drawn attention to yourself, I’d dislike for you to die. Crying makes me look a fright.”

She turns her face so that no one can see her bared teeth. “We can take care of ourselves, Nikolai. Even here.” She dislikes being coddled so.

“As you say,” his tone suggests he doesn't believe her. He has no reason to, he knows this world and government better than she does. But Alina still doesn’t like it. “Just, please, don’t ask anyone else.” He sighs into her hair. “Not even in your rooms. I promise in a few days I’ll figure something out so you can learn. Perhaps I should have done it sooner, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not quite forgiven.” She dislikes being tripped up so, especially when it has bearing on _ her _ life, such as it is. “And what do you mean ‘even in our rooms?’” It almost sounds like a threat, something she dislikes even more.

Another sigh from Nikolai. “I’m an ambassador, Alina. The government takes an interest in _ everyone _ I associate. Your room’s likely been tampered with, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they’re trying to find out if you or Aleksander are spies.”

The idea is almost laughable, but she doesn't laugh. She has walked finer roads than this before, although then she’d had more power than she does now—of a certain kind at least. “I still dislike being kept in the dark, especially by you.” It’s both worrying and amusing to think of what the government _ will _ find when they look for her and Aleksander. 

They should tell him, so he can prepare, if such a thing can even be done.

He pulls away. “Enough of such depressing talk. I do believe I promised to introduce you to my sister.” When he offers his arm, she takes it. He’s not the only one keeping secrets after all, even if she dislikes it.

But they have only known each other for a week, why should it be otherwise? As much as she wants it, this man is not her first husband, not truly.

They walk, Nikolai smiling and greeting those that he passes, but not stopping to talk like before. They don’t stop until they reach a small knot of people, throaty laughter coming from the center. 

“Lebed,” Nikolai calls out. “Come meet my girlfriend.” Alina almost laughs at the title, she’s never been someone’s ‘girlfriend’ before. She guesses ‘lover’ is too gauche. “The two of you have been insisting enough.”

The crowd parts and...Alina’s heart stops for the barest of moments. With Nikolai she hadn’t been sure, but this woman, even with her paler skin and golden-brown hair, is Zoya. Perhaps she should have guessed—Alina shoves down the hysterical laughter that wants to leave her—who else would dare to be Nikolai’s sister but Zoya?

“Alina Kostya, may I introduce to you Zoya Lebedva. Lebed, this is Alina, play nice please. I quite like her.”

The comment earns him a sniff from Zoya, but she does hold out her hand. It doesn’t surprise Alina in the least that she wears a bracelet of red, blue, and purple. “That you’ve been with her for at least a week is telling enough, Kolya.”

Alina shakes Zoya’s hand. “It’s good to finally meet you. I do believe Nikolai was afraid of what might happen if he did introduce us.”

Zoya laughs. “At least she’s got something resembling bite. Keep him on his toes, and I’ll at least tolerate you.”

She gives Zoya a smile. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

-

Alina feels tired when she steps into her and Aleksander’s room. With relief she kicks off her heels and lets the illusion of her makeup fade away.

“Enjoy yourself?” Aleksander looks up from his book.

She nods, and motions him towards her as she heads for the bathroom. She turns the shower on and hopes the water will be enough to cover the sounds of conversation. When he closes the door behind him she throws herself at him, letting him catch her. “We’re being listened to.”

He closes his eyes and lets out an annoyed sound.

She lets a smile tug at her lips. “We should have expected it, considering. Nikolai also said the government would be looking into us.” She knows the world relies more on papers and documents than she’s used to, but up in the mountains and out of the way corners they’d lived in before then, no one had cared. “I also discovered we’re at war, with Novy Zem.” Ravka had always been a country at war, in some fashion. Though Nikolai, and later Raya, had had long peaceful rules—for the most part.

“Why?” The bafflement in his gray eyes is comforting in a way. If he had won, all those centuries ago, would he have tried for the likes of Novy Zem and the Wandering Isle? Would he have tried to make the whole world bow to the Ravkan flag and a Grisha ruler?

Alina shakes off those thoughts, might-have-beens are no use to her. “I don’t know, he said anyone asking questions usually disappeared. He did say though he would try to find a way to talk to us about it. We should think about telling him a few things of our own as well. There’s one more thing.”

It earns her another groan, and Aleksander rests his head on her shoulder. “What?”

“His sister is Zoya. Or near enough as to make no difference.”

“Oh Saints and stars.”

She’s grateful to laugh this time. “Perhaps we should have expected it.” All things came and returned to the Making of the World, why not the souls of people too? 

“She’s going to hate me, so it’s for the best we never meet.” He shifts his hold on her to set her on the counter. The steam from the room makes him look softer than usual. “Perhaps we should have, but it doesn’t make it any less strange. Why have we not encountered them before?”

“You haven’t betrayed her,” Alina reminds. “She worshiped you before then.” Once that had made Alina bitter, now it is only a blip in their history. Alina finds herself both glad and vaguely terrified to try and become Zoya’s friend again. “It could be they only return to Os Alta, we’ve avoided it until now.” 

A sound of agreement from Aleksander. “I do not think I wish to experiment to find out if that might be the case.”

She weaves her hands through his thick hair, pulling him up slightly so that his eyes meet her own. “Neither do I. But if it’s true, maybe we should have kept ourselves in the world.”

“So my way of doing things makes sense now.” She only lets him get away with it because he’s joking.

Which doesn’t mean she doesn’t punish him a little, tugging on his hair enough to make him bare his throat to her. Leaning in she sets her teeth on the skin, his breath rattles between them and she feels powerful again.

-

Another week passes, and while they see Nikolai and have their fun, he puts off any attempts at conversation, or, more accurately, any conversation more serious than what they should do in the next few hours.

Eventually though he shows up at their hotel, carrying a picnic basket. “My birthday’s tomorrow,” his wink is perhaps a little too broad. “I have just the place for us to celebrate.” He laces his free arm through Aleksander’s, bold as a fox. “Come on,” eagerness fills his voice and Alina does her best to shove down the pang that follows.

Much to their surprise he takes them to the grounds of the Little Palace. There is no longer a dock on the lake, but there is a small row boat nestled on the sand, clearly waiting for them. Neither she nor Aleksander question this, it may have been ages since they’ve had to think of spies and eavesdroppers, but it doesn’t surprise that the best place to talk of such forbidden things would be so very close to the seat of power.

There are fewer trees on the island then she recalls, all clustered together in a little copse. Nikolai doesn’t lead them there however, instead he settles the blanket and basket near the middle of the island. He should be grateful neither she nor Aleskander sunburn, though the summer heat is mildly irritating, even to her.

It turns out there is food in the basket, two bottles of vodka too. “Better to be a little drunk,” another too broad wink. “Makes it easier to talk.”

Aleksander snorts and Nikolai makes an offended sound. “Oh don’t be like that, Sanya. Ravkans and secrets are like Kerch and their gold, hard to part with.”

Alina rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t miss the flash of pleasure on Aleksander’s face at the diminutive. “Then we’ll eat and drink until we can convince you to part with them.” Leaning against Aleksander she picks up a bilini and begins eating. She has no doubt the vodka will be good, but it will also serve no purpose beyond that for her and Aleksander.

Soon enough pink casts across Nikolai’s cheekbones, and his smiles grow wider. “Ah. Hello there.” Alina doesn’t believe that he’s so drunk that he didn’t mean to sprawl against her, cheek nestled against her breast. She’ll let him have it though. “To the awful business of war then.”

“Why Novy Zem?” Aleksander shifts to better keep her upright now that she’s supporting Nikolai’s weight. “Even with flying ships it seems a waste, especially with our perennial adversaries on either doorstep.”

Nikolai manages to sprawl even more, the awful man. “The propagandists would have you believe they slighted us and refused to apologize for it, although more recently the story’s changed to the idea of Ravkan expansion. Easier to change the story when talking about it is frowned upon.” He turns his head slightly to kiss the curve of her breast.

“If anyone believes that,” Alina responds tartly. “When, as Sasha said, we have Fjerda and Shu Han to win land from should we truly need it. Then I find myself fearing for the intelligence of Ravka.” She tugs at Nikolai’s hair. “What is the truth then?”

“Resources, partly, although it’s also to attempt to keep Ravka whole. Though I’ve heard whispers in the Palace that even with the war the Chancellor's hold on the likes of West Ravka is growing weaker. So pride then, Ravka as a country has stood for thousands of years, my fellows don’t wish to be remembered as the ones who let it fall apart.”

Moving is difficult, pressed between her men as she is, but Alina manages it enough to kiss the top of Nikolai’s head. “Thank you.” As much as she might want to, Alina doesn’t see an easy way to end this war, not if it’s been going on for thirty years. Even if she reappeared as the Saint, she doubts that her word would be enough to stop the fighting.

She pushes against Aleksander and he gently guides the three of them down to the ground. A breeze from the lake picks up and beats away some of the heat. Taking advantage of it Alina bends some away herself as well, welcoming the relief.

Nikolai happily buries his face fully in her cleavage, drawing a brief laugh from her. Aleksander rolls his eyes, but one of his hands join’s Alina’s in Nikolai’s hair. “We have something of our own to tell you.” Or at least a version of it, she’s not sure this Nikolai would accept the full truth, not yet at least.

Nikolai turns his head enough to give Aleksander something resembling a baleful look. “I do hope you’re not about to tell me you really are spies. Or revolutionaries. As I told Alina, crying makes me look a fright. And I enjoy the sex too much to give it up.”

“We are not spies,” Alina replies primly. “And we should hope it’s not just the sex that keeps you with us.”

“Yes, yes, my charming personality helps too.”

“Charmingly abhorrent,” Aleksander mutters with no heat.

Alina’s sharp sigh cuts them off before they can continue. The look she gives Aleksander is fond, and worth it for the faint bit of pink that slashes across his cheekbones.

“You blush!” Nikolai sounds too pleased by this. “I had thought you too aloof for that sort of banal thing.”

Another laugh from Alina, for Nikolai’s not quite wrong, and she relishes those blushes. Proof that Aleksander is still human, for all his centuries. “As much as I enjoy teasing my husband, that’s not what we want to talk about.” She absently runs a hand down Nikolai’s chest, enjoying the feel of his living body beneath it; proof that he’s _ real_, that this isn’t just some long dream.

Nestling closer Aleksander sighs, his breath ruffling her hair. “Yes, let us go back to that. It is perhaps not as...off-putting a secret as yours, but. We are Grisha, and...quite older than we appear.”

“How old?” All traces of amusement are gone from Nikolai, although he still has an easy smile on his face. Alina can see the calculating look in his eye though.

“A little over a century, for both of us,” Aleksander lies smoothly, better than she can. “Alina had mentioned your people might be looking into us, and thought you should know.” Even a century might not save them from certain questions, although from what she can tell this new government has only been around for about seventy of them.

Nikolai eyes them assessingly. “And here I thought _ I _ was the oldest. Corporalki then?” he tilts his face towards Aleksander. “Or perhaps Materalki, considering you enjoy making things?”

“I’m Etheralki,” Alina corrects. Better for her to tell something closer to the truth. Unlike Aleksander she never excelled under Juris’ teachings, even before she’d shed her amplifiers. That was neither here nor there, it didn’t matter to her that only light and heat were hers to control, just like she’d never been jealous that Aleksander had been able to become competent in all areas of the Small Science.

“You must use your powers quite frequently, looking as lovely and youthful as you both do.”

“It’s quite easy to do when, as you said, I enjoy making things.” Aleksander shifts down so that he is at eye level with Nikolai. Heat blooms in her belly as she watches them kiss. 

As much as she enjoys it however, perhaps it would be good to keep up _ some _ manner of pretense. “Perhaps we should move this to the shade, before we all turn as pink as pigs.”

Pulling away from Aleksander, Nikolai lets out a little laugh. “Don’t worry, darling.” His hand settles on her cheek. “I’ve got at least enough skill to take care of _ that _ should it become a problem.” His words catch her and Aleksander both off guard.

Quick as can be Aleksander reaches out, grabbing Nikolai’s chin in his fingers and turning his face to look at him. “And when were you going to tell us that?” It’s not quite an _ unhappy _ note in Aleksander’s voice.

Nikolai plasters on his charming smile, though it doesn’t quite work as well as he might wish. “That I’m Grisha too? If it ever became relevant I might. It’s not as if it’s a secret, it’s just, not that important.” He shrugs. “Honestly I barely qualify, even as a Healer. There are quite a few people who wouldn’t consider me Grisha just because of that. Zoya insists I deserve to wear red, but,” another shrug. “I prefer for people to see me because of my work, not because of some chance of birth.”

Alina’s whole chest seems to ache at those words, not quite the same as forever ago, but similar enough. Without thinking she pulls Nikolai up into a kiss.

-

“So then.” Being invited to tea with Zoya had caught Alina off guard, but the thought of declining never entered Alina’s mind. Perhaps she should have, with how Zoya looks at her so. “What would it take to convince you or your husband,” if she’s bothered that her brother is sleeping with a married couple, it doesn’t show. “To come teach at my school?”

It’s not quite annoyance that flashes through Alina, but she does sigh, making her tea dance. “Nikolai told you.” No question there. Not that that they told him _ not _ to tell anyone, but she feels it was _ implied_.

Zoya’s shrug is artfully unconcerned. “We always tell each other the truth, even when we don’t want to. Our father kept Nikolai’s mother and mine secret from each other, until he didn’t anymore, and it destroyed him. So we keep no secrets.” The first Zoya would have never been so open about her past. Alina finds she is also tired of comparing those she meets now to those she knew before.

“So, teaching. You needn’t have any _ actual _ experience teaching, but I’m scrambling for enough adult Grisha as it is.” Zoya breaks a scone in two. “Damn Ivan for going back into the war. How am I supposed to teach these students to be Grisha, when I have no Grisha _ to _ teach them.”

“I can’t,” Alina demures. She nibbles on a chocolate-covered cookie. “I’m much like your brother in that I have barely any talent at all. I will ask Aleksander though.” She manages to bury the laughter that wants to rise up deep. Aleksander _ teaching _ Grisha instead of leading them, it should be a sight to see at the very least. She does suppose they should get work though, all the better to make everyone else think they’re normal. Nevermind it would be a good way to cover up at least some of the money they’re spending.

Zoya sighs, but she has enough pride that she doesn’t slump. “That’s all I can ask for. Do let him know that if he agrees I can provide an apartment for you on the grounds. It will at least be something more personable than a hotel room.”

-

“_Teaching?” _ Aleksander sounds...perhaps not quite baffled by the idea. 

Alina runs her hand across his back, fingers dancing along the tracery of scars. “Yes,” she says fondly. “I think you should. You like having a purpose.” Making whatever it was that the other people of Ulaan might have needed, solider, leader of the Grisha. As time’s gone on here he’s been getting...more restless. It’s not hard to bring him back into line should he stray too far, but him actually having something to _ do _ would help.

His gray eyes grow distant. Thinking about teaching, or about the past? Perhaps his mind has even dared to wander to his mother; she is certainly someone Alina has not deigned to think of since Baghra had sided with Elizaveta forever ago—only for the both of them to be stopped by Stasya.

Aleksander’s sigh tickles her neck and brings her back to him. “Alright. If only to give us somewhere more private than a hotel room.”

-

Aleksander takes to teaching like a hand to a glove. And while Zoya hadn’t pressed Alina to teach as well, she does find herself being roped into helping with fundraising, and paperwork, and dealing with parents—she curses Zoya and Rose the most for the last one. Alina can hope that Aleksander will make friends with the other teachers, but she's certain she's going to have to settle for toleration.

It’s nice to have a place they can call their own as well. Their presence at the school also means Nikolai visits more often, at least when he’s not off doing his own work. There’s no nosey government workers stopping by to ask questions, or anything even to imply that they’re being watched.

Alina wonders if she can start to let herself be happy again.

-

A year passes. Aleksander wears clothes with purple and blue stitching, Alina keeps complaining about dealing with parents, Nikolai leaves for a diplomatic mission to Kerch, and returns with ostentatious jewelry for the both of them. Ivan returns from the war, missing an ear, and lets Zoya convince him to teach. Zoya drinks too much tea and mutters to herself about how to improve the school.

They do not change, but Os Alta does.

Alina is certain she and Zoya notice it first. They’re the two who go out into the city the most, Alina even more than Zoya.

It starts with posters, which get torn down quickly, though they reappear like worms after rain. Posters demanding answers from the government, asking people to gather and discuss frowned upon things.

The war has been going on for thirty years, but from the way the prices of food and other goods are going up, Alina thinks Ravka is losing.

Posters turn into phrases painted or embedded—whomever is attempting to foment the people of Os Alta clearly have a Druast—on the walls. Murals pop up: ambiguous people throwing off chains, carrying the flag of the Ravkan monarchy.

The Watch patrols the city more often, ‘encouraging’ people who loiter too long to move somewhere else, asking an endless stream of questions, rifling through Alina’s shopping as they please. It is clear that there is a growing sentiment for peace, and that it becomes more and more of a demand as the days go by.

“The people might want it,” Nikolai sighs over coffee and the morning paper. “But the government is loathed to back down once they’ve started something. Intractable as a mountain.”

“As ugly as one too,” Zoya adds.

Nikolai’s sigh is exaggerated. “My own sister, when did it come to this?”

“Don’t worry Zoya,” Alina hides her grin behind her teacup. “We’ll keep him distracted while you run for the Fjerdan border.”

Aleksander laughs and kisses Nikolai’s cheek when mock-outrage crosses his face.

Despite the tension in Ravka, Alina is happy.

-

There are people now, speaking up against the war in the streets, who vanish into thin air at the first whisper of the Watch—if Alina did not know for certain that _ parem _ had been lost to time she would wonder. More posters, more murals. Soon even the everyday citizen—who would much prefer to just live their lives—talk about it, despite the warnings of the Watch otherwise.

Alina agrees with their sentiments, but says nothing. Being the lover of an ambassador is about as political as she wishes to get. She certainly says nothing to anyone.

Nikolai practically lives with them now, partly out of necessity—Zoya’s school is closer to the Palace than the apartment Nikolai once kept. She doesn’t doubt her being there to soothe him when he comes back from the Palace helps too. Not that she minds, it gives her something else to focus on for a short time besides her own neverending pile of work.

The two of them are naked and tangled together on the couch when Aleksander steps into the apartment. His eyes linger on the both of them as he walks up and gives them each a kiss. “Should I hope this will become a trend?”

Nikolai preens from under Alina. “Mmm, only if it means you join us, Sanya. How you managed to handle Alina all on your own before you met me, is beyond me.”

Alina jabs him in the shoulder. “I hardly need ‘handled.’”

He arches under her, making his soft cock shift inside her, hands moving to cup her breasts. “But it’s my favorite thing to do to you, _ devotchka_.”

Alekander’s fingers settle on Nikolai’s neck, making him arch it, Aleksander’s mouth settling on the wide swath of skin. “I think I’d much prefer if we handled _ you_, Kolya.”  
  
“Mmmm, those are some of my favorite words. I could be convinced.”  
  
Fond laughter leaves Alina, and she lets herself be pushed back by Aleksander. It pulls her away from Nikolai, but Aleksander’s mouth eating her out is worth it. She holds him there with fingers and thighs, enjoying the way he begins to tremble, how his eyes grow hazy with pleasure.

When she lets him go his face is flush and covered in her slick. Before she can yank him over to lick it up he shifts towards Nikolai, devoting the same amount of attention to Nikolai’s cock as Alina’s slit. It’s almost sweet the way Nikolai hesitates to weave his fingers through Aleksander’s hair to limit his movement. Alina doesn’t do it for him however, knowing it would only make him uncomfortable.

It’s pleasant enough to watch, her fingers sliding down to lazily play with herself. A soft smile crossing her face.

-

Alina, Zoya, and Nikolai are out out in Os Alta, searching out possible locations for the next fundraiser, when it happens.

It doesn’t happen suddenly, but it’s been so long since Alina was last in a riot that she’d forgotten the signs of it. So it seems as if one moment the world is fine, the next it becomes a chaos of angry people mostly looking to take that anger out on who, or what, ever is closest.

Zoya gets shoved to the ground by a burly woman, only to be run over by people who don’t realize she’s on the ground. Alina doesn’t think as Nikolai swoops in to rescue his sister.  
  
It’s been a while since she used her powers for something this...big, but it comes back easily. There’s not even a flash of light as she weaves the illusion around them. By the time she reaches Nikolai, Zoya blessedly still alive in his arms, the rioters give them all a wide berth. Thinking them a large, and peevish horse. “Come on.” Grabbing Nikolai she guides them all towards an empty alley.

“Fucking Saints!” Zoya’s in fine angry form, cradling her right arm to her chest. “I hope they all catch some horrible disease and _ die_. Ow! I hope you get a disease too,” she aims that last part at Nikolai. Who’d pried her right arm free and is gently working on it.

Alina keeps guard, more than willing to hurt anyone who came at them. Perhaps she should have Aleksander make them knives.

“There,” Nikolai sounds tired. Out of the corner of Alina’s eye she sees him shed his coat to make a sling for Zoya. “I got enough of it healed up, Ivan can handle the rest when we get back to the school. Deadened the pain too, which I’m sure you’ll appreciate Lebed.”

He helps Zoya stand and together they make the sling. “Thank you,” Zoya says quietly.

“Come on,” Alina says again. Instead of leading them back to the street she takes them further down the alley, better to avoid the streets for now. She keeps hiding them with illusions, not the horse one, but making them look like a large band of rioters themselves. Then she shifts it to nothing at all the closer they get to the school.

They make it and Alina’s shoulders sag in relief as she drops the illusions altogether. It’s no surprise to find Ivan and Aleksander waiting just inside. In the office she can hear Rose on the telephone talking with parents, assuring them their children were safe. Zoya docilely goes with Ivan, and Alina and Nikolai let Aleksander chivvy them along. She’s not as tired as Nikolai is, but she’s willing to let Aleksander fuss over the both of them.

They both get shoved on the couch when they enter their apartment and Aleksander vanishes into the bathroom, the sounds of the tub filling soon reaching her ears. “You were doing something,” Nikolai says slowly. “To keep us hidden.”

“I was,” she agrees. Choosing not to elaborate more. “It’s getting worse isn’t it?” It almost feels like her childhood all over again, Ravka facing external and internal wars of it’s own making.

Nikolai leans his cheek against her shoulder. “Perhaps you and Sanya should go back to Ulaan.”

“No,” she cuts him off before he can continue. “We’re staying here, with you.” Now that they have him again they’re not letting him go, certainly not over something so trivial as civil war.  
  
Aleksander returns before Nikolai can try and convince her—hopefully he overheard the conversation, he’ll side with her over Nikolai on this—and drags them both upright and into the bathroom. He undresses them quickly and all but shoves them into the bath. “Stay,” he seems to direct this more at Alina than Nikolai. “Maybe if you’re good I’ll wash your hair.”

Her laugh is weak, but she appreciates it anyways.  
  
-

Another day another fundraiser. This one even takes place in the same church as Alina’s first.  
  
The only difference is the tension in the air, and the overall quiet in the room. And the fact that Aleksander is with her and Nikolai this time.

Aleksander settles himself by her side with the ease of centuries. “Perhaps we could sneak away to the side chapel, reconsecrate the whole church.”

She hides her laughter in his shoulder. “I think that only works if I’m the one being worshiped.”

“Such impossible tasks you give me, _ solnishka_.” He runs a hand over her golden dress, rucking it up for just the barest of seconds. “When I have been nothing but your most devout servant.”

“Mmm, I think your claim needs proving, _ lyubimets. _” He shudders when she turns her head and sets her teeth in his throat. “I cannot recall the last time you got on your knees and prayed.” They’re not exactly tucked away in a corner, but there’s no one looking at them, moreso when she covers them with the illusion of nothing. She drags her nails over the bulge of his pants, relishing the strangled sound he makes.

He leans into the touch though, begging for more. “If you ask it of me I’ll do it here and now, there are certainly plenty of witnesses. My faith should never be in doubt.”

Alina doubts it ever will be. Even forever ago, when he sought to use her, he still believed, if in a different Alina. “Ever so dramatic, Sasha.” She smiles fondly as she says it. “You know there is only one worthy of seeing you broken so.” Not that she’d go that far, even after two years Nikolai is not fond of such dark things. It has long since stopped being a pity.

“Then I shall go fetch Nikolai.” He picks up her hand in his and kisses her palm, then her wrist. “And we’ll both worship you, together.”

Her smile twists into something a little more possessive. “I will meet you at the chapel then. It shall be an interesting challenge to see if you can focus enough to keep everyone else from hearing us.” She doubts he’s forgotten that particular Squaller trick, but it’s rarely been used recently.

Pulling away, Aleksander gives her something of a smug smile, clearly confident he can. Alina finds herself plotting how best to make sure he slips, at least once.

Head filling with ideas she makes her way over to the chapel. Stilling when a flash of gray catches her eye.

It’s just one minister or another, Alina tells herself, some government worker who decided not to bother dressing up. Yet she still turns towards that flash, her whole being growing cold. She loses sight of the gray for a moment in the crowd, but soon the people part, just enough for her to get a good look. 

Stasya dances through the crowd unseen, in the arms of a wind, who is sometimes a man in white. That her daughter and Marozk are both here makes the fragile happiness around Alina’s heart fracture. Yet in a blink they are gone.

Heart pounding in her throat Alina weaves her way through the crowd. They are only here because of the brewing rebellion in Os Alta, Alina reassures herself, nothing at all to do with Nikolai or the party tonight. It’s a warning that things are going to get worse, nothing more.

It’s almost comical, the fact that she nearly runs into Nikolai, Aleksander trailing behind him. The act earns her an arched eyebrow. “I do believe you said you’d meet us in the chapel?” It’s not quite a challenge coming from Aleksander.

She gives a haughty sniff. “You were taking too long,” she lies. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten.”

Nikolai laughs. “As if we could forget you, _ devotchka_.” He takes her arm and leads the both of them. “Far be it from me to turn down such an interesting game.”

She loves Nikolai, but she knows his comment will make Aleksander unhappy, it’s not a game for him. He might not pray to her in hopes that she will grant him this and that favor, but his worship is still true. He still believes she really is a Saint of one kind or another. A far cry from their past.

When they reach the chapel it’s empty, easy for Alina to weave the illusion of construction detritus as Aleksander scoops her up. She laughs as he carefully lifts the tray of candles and sets it aside before putting her on the stand. She leans against the wall, Aleksander above and below her, the thought makes her smile.

As Aleksander kneels Nikolai steps up to her side. “Quite eerie how much he looks like the mural of the Darkling.”

She laughs again as Aleksander stills. Weaving her hands through his hair she tugs sharply, he should be focused on nothing more than her pleasure, and keeping them quiet—she can hear the dampening of sound in the air, making her and Nikolai sound flat.

“I’m certain it was bound to happen at some point,” she replies. Aleksander pushes her skirt up, revealing her lack of underwear. A fact that has both of her men still.

“Saints,” Nikolai’s voice sounds ragged. And she grins as he turns her face and kisses her. Seemingly happy to swallow down her cries as Aleksander parts her folds and blows on the tender flesh. Nikolai’s hand worms its way under her dress and cups her breast as Aleksander’s tongue grazes her clit. Alina pulls away from Nikolai to throw her head back and cry out, her eyes staring at the mural of Aleksander—his expression too disapproving, not like him at all.

Aleksander mouths prayers against her skin as he brings her to orgasm over and over again, until she has forgotten all about her earlier panic. Nikolai contents himself with teasing her breasts, nipping at her neck, and other such things. If he has any interest in taking Aleksander’s place, or doing anything more than playful teasing, he doesn’t show it—although she can feel his hard cock against her hip.

“No more,” Alina finally speaks. Her hands pulling Aleksander’s head away from her. His mouth and chin are shiny with her juices, and his expression is this sort one sees on Saints as they die. Letting go of his hair her hands move to cup his cheeks, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “Take care of Nikolai,” she commands.

“Evil woman,” Nikolai groans against her neck.

“It’s what he deserves,” she answers tartly. Her eyes not leaving Aleksander as he moves to Nikolai, still on his knees. With ease he undoes the man’s pants and shoves them and underwear aside. She only gets the briefest look of Nikolai’s cock before Aleksander swallows it down without warning. Nikolai shouts against her throat, his hips working as Aleksander skillfully takes him apart.

Nikolai looks saintly himself as he comes, Aleksander dutifully swallowing down every drop. When he pulls away he still looks apart from everything. Gently she pulls his head to her thigh, running her fingers through his hair. “Darling Sasha,” she praises. “You please me greatly.”  
  
As she pets, Nikolai kisses her cheek, before stepping away from the both of them and carefully putting himself back together. “I would love to stay, but I fear if I’m gone any longer Lebed will start a manhunt.” Another kiss to her cheek, and a hesitant pat of Aleksander’s hair. “I’ll find you both again later, I’m sure.”

She watches him go, sad that he’s left them, but also knows it means she can give Aleksander more proper attention. “_Lyubimets, _ my Darkling. How can I be anything but humble with such worship? With how well you bend and obey?” She keeps up her soft litany. Until Aleksander’s eyes are no longer hazy and distant.

“Alright?” She murmurs as he stands. A smile crossing her face as he delicately cleans himself.

“_Da, moi sovernyni.” _ He kisses her gently. “My queen.” He helps her off the stand. Though she’s uncertain whether he’s helping or hindering when his hands join her own in righting her dress.

Eventually however she’s presentable. Letting the illusion fade she and Aleksander step back into the main church, no one looking none the wiser. A secret smile curls her face as they rejoin the party.

At least until she sees Marozk again, bending down to murmur in a man’s ear.

No, no, no, no.

Alina pushes through the crowd, following the man, uncaring of the looks it gets her, ignoring Aleksander calling her name in worry. Desperate to find Nikolai; steal him and Aleksander away from the church, from her daughter, from the world itself. Anything if it means there won’t be another decade of grief that carves into her soul.

“For Ravka! For freedom!” The man’s cry is followed by the sound of gunshot. The echoing sound is only drowned out by the screams that soon start.

Alina reaches the man, and her heart stills. His vile deed done he attempts to flee, gun in hand. For a moment she only has eyes for Nikolai, staring up at golden domes with his now sightless eyes, blood staining the white marble.

“No.” It is nothing to send out a Cut, the man falling to the ground in pieces.

The Cut fades, but the light and heat in her grow, and grow. Filling the church with her grief and pain. Until she is nothing but the sun, here to burn everything around her. They called her a Saint, but she does not think they recall how cruel a Saint can be.

Screams echo through the church again, this time in pain, not fear.

Yes. Let them feel her grief, suffer as she suffers. Let them know the Saint they hold dear is displeased. Fear the unknown depths of her cruelty.

Aleksander’s voice cuts through the screams, but the words he speaks do not reach her. He will join her after all, her dark shadow. He has ever wanted to be a teacher to her, and now she will let him.

Dark shapes appear in the light. _ Nich’voya_, yes, she begins to reach for _ Merzost _ herself; no price is too great when she has nothing left to lose again.

They reach her and she embraces them, these are the only children she can have with anyone anymore, and she wishes only to bless them.

Hands touch her, and too late, she realizes they are not here to help her, but to _ hold _ her. Alina struggles, but one grabs her hands. The light dies so quickly she thinks she’s gone blind. It does not help that darkness envelops her, the _ nich’voya _ fading away as Aleksander takes their place. His long fingers feel cruel around her wrists. “Alina, enough.” There is grief in his voice too.

“They took him!” Sparks of light fill the darkness as she begins to cry. “We can’t let this stand.”

Silvery-gray eyes turn cold. “Not like this.” He moves to pick her up and she doesn’t fight it.

As he carries her out of the church she sees charred bodies, and strange shadows on the walls that have no origin. Zoya still stands, burns streaking across her naked body like beams of light, hair half gone. Blue eyes wide with awe and fear.

-

Centuries ago, she was on a boat just like this. Bound for Novy Zem with a fellow ghost. Now she rides it with the man who had once hunted her down. Not towards freedom as before, but towards war.

The wind that is also Marozk, cackles over the deck. A few seconds later, Stasya stands next to her. “I’m sorry, mama.” Will that be a constant refrain, Alina wonders.

“Will he come back again?” She croaks, too tired to even cry anymore.

Stasya moves, and a moment later Alina can feel thin fingers card through her hair, separating it for braiding. “I don’t know, death is my world, not the making of life. A better question to ask great-grandfather I think, he might even answer right away.”

“Who?” There is perhaps a flare of hope, but Alina doesn’t let it grow. For all that Stasya is still her daughter, her world is far stranger perhaps than Alina’s own. A world of living winds, and old things that have convinced people they’re only stories.

The question earns her a sigh. “Ilya, mama. He’s the only great-gandfather I have,” Stasya’s voice is patient. “Much like you he might not have chosen immortality, but he’s embraced it. I do not believe he ever stops making things.”

Ilya Morozova alive, after what must be thousands of years, is a baffling thing for Alina to contemplate. “Chosen?” Better to think about than Morozova and how his actions perhaps destroyed the life she wanted.

“Like papa did, even if he doesn’t know it.” Stasya’s fingers never stop their braiding. “Papa made a name for himself, then did things befitting of that name, earning himself fear and respect. Even if they do not recall his name now, they still know his deeds. Even moreso after he met you. I guess I chose, too.” Alina can all but hear the shrug in those words. ”It just happened that instead of taking my time I threw myself headfirst into the first place that would have me.”

“And Ilya and I?” Not that Alina isn’t curious about how easy it apparently might be for immortality to be attained, but it wasn’t exactly the purpose of the conversation.

“Shoved, I guess, after a certain fashion. He brought grand-aunt Marya back to life in front of quite a few people, a tale like that’s worth telling, even if they were supposedly drowned afterwards. You were made into a Saint even more quickly than he. Except he didn’t realize what he was doing. Making, down to the very atoms of things, that he understands, not people.” A brief laugh. “He and I have that in common. Although even I know that when one crawls out of the river, chains broken and still living daughter in your arms, people will talk. Even moreso when the two of you vanish.” A huff. “You didn’t fight it as much as he did.”

Alina bites her tongue, Stasya is right in a way. Alina might have hated being called Saint, and mother of Grisha, but she could have done more to put a stop to it. “If I had fought, would I have died?”

Silence stretches between them.

“I don’t know,” Staysa finally answers. “But would you have? Knowing that papa would be alone, thinking I had taken the both of you from him?” Stasya finishes her braid and steps back to Alina’s side.

Her words make Alina shudder. Aleksander had once created the Fold, just to see what would happen if he mixed the Small Science with _Merzost_. He’d nearly destroyed Ravka to try and keep Grisha safe. Alina and Nikolai had had to break him in order to save him, but that meant he needed one or the other to keep him. Without them he would be lost.

Tears drip down her cheeks. “Damn you,” anger makes her voice crackle.

Wisely, Stasya says nothing.

Alina scrubs the tears from her cheeks. “I need kefta.” She wonders if she will hate showing Ravka the terror a Saint could bring, as she’d once hated showing it to Fjerda.

Stasya nods, and Marozk blows again, taking her away.

Alina looks up at the sickle of a moon, tracks it as it moves across the sky, an hour, two, pass.

This time there is no wind to herald her return, Alina blinks and Stasya is there, two kefta in her arms.

Alina takes the golden one first. It is light, lighter than any kefta Alina recalls wearing. Yet she’s certain it would stop even tankfire if she needed it too. There’s barely any light from the moon, yet the kefta glows and shimmers, like sunlight through leaves. She doesn’t put it on just yet, she knows the impact of a well timed reveal.

The second kefta is black...no, Alina realizes as she takes it too, darker even than that. It’s as if it takes what little light there is, and gives nothing back. A void rather than a shadow.

“Thank you.”

Stasya nods. When she takes Alina’s hands hers are almost warm. “If you need me, only call. I am everywhere, war moreso.”

Alina knows.

Once more Stasya vanishes, leaving Alina alone.

Holding the kefta tight Alina goes back down belowdecks, to the cabin she and Aleksander share. It is time for them to become the Saint and her Shadow, to talk of war, once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when the next chapter will be out, I'm basically going to be posting these as I finish writing them.
> 
> But I can tell you it will involve jewelry, a case of mistaken identity???, and a distinct lack of respect for good floors.
> 
> In the meantime you're welcome to send me an ask or a message on [my tumblr!](https://kaelsmiscellany.tumblr.com/) (also I could have sworn in the books that Leigh actually names the wind that brings bad luck and misfortune, but for the life of me could not find it. If anyone can actually find that name, or tell me if I hallucinated the whole thing, I'd be hella grateful.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you're all ready for chapter 2! This one was certainly a lot of fun to write, even if I didn't end up doing some things I thought I would. (ie, some of the people you're going to meet are _kind of_ everyone's favorite Crows, but not enough that I felt comfortable tagging them as actual characters).

_Stories made in war are rarely pretty, but last, in a way. Especially when they’re born of tragedy._

_So it is no wonder that tales begin to spread of a Coporalnik so charming and bold he went right up to the Land of Saints and lured the sunlight and shadows once more unto the earth. There is no agreement to his death, some say assassination, others say bad luck. That it was the spark for the Sunlight Massacre, is something all agree upon._

_For sunlight and shadows are quick to punish those who harm what is theirs._

-

Aleksander wanders, for a time, after the war; after he and Alina part. Passing through Ravka, rife with true civil war this time—he could choose a side should he please, and he is certain if he did so that side would be the victor. But fresh off the heels of war in Novy Zem he finds he is tired of it.

So he only travels, avoiding people where he can—all too likely that some militia or another will try and recruit him, either willingly or by force. Not that the latter would keep him long.

Eventually though he reaches the Elbjen, the peaks seeming impassible. Yet if his grandfather did it centuries ago—if what Alina conveyed to him is true—then Aleksander can do it now. He has the sense of mind to prepare at least, dried food, warm clothes, many layers. The vendors who sell to him all shake their heads when they think he isn’t looking, many try to cross the Elbjen and few come back. Aleksander cannot recall hearing of anyone who has crossed _and_ come back.

Aleksander is not just anyone however.

It is not the most grueling ordeal he has ever encountered, but it is exhausting, and it takes far longer than he would like.

He makes it over in the end. It is almost anti-climatic that when he does make it over and leaves the foothills he finds himself in a grassland, not unlike the ones he traversed in Ravka before crossing.

Perhaps it’s too much to hope that wherever his grandfather has settled it would be in view of the mountains. The plain gives him a wide view, but even then nothing like a house or workshop makes itself known.

Taking a deep breath Aleksander sits. He eats and drinks a little and takes a brief nap. Feeling a little more like himself he reaches deep and calls forth a _nich’voya_, a wave of weakness passes through him as it takes its horrifying shape. “Find people,” he tells it. “Come back when you do.”

It wavers then flies away, a shadow over grass, seeming nothing more than a bird of prey.

He is finishing a hat made of grass when it returns.

It guides him further east, the grassland seemingly endless. Yet eventually he finds it rises, and when he crests the hill he discovers a ramshackle thing that wishes it were a house. He dismisses the _nich’voya_ with a thought and descends.

Aleksander has enough manners to knock, although when no one answers he does try the door. Discovering it unlocked he enters.

Everywhere unfinished projects lay about, waiting for someone to come along and see them done. He can’t even fathom the purpose of half of them. As he goes deeper he finds himself certain this is where Ilya Morozova has chosen to reside. He’s uncertain if he knows what he wants to find, his experiences with blood-family have never been the best.

Light and sound draw him deeper, until he comes across a workshop. It smells of wood shavings and molten metal, things that have become familiar to Aleksander, and that comfort in a way.

Bent over a table is a man, hair black and raggedly cut. Clothes equally ragged and clearly not well kept.

“Morozova,” he says it quietly, but his voice still seems to fill the space around them. Pulling all the air out with it as it fades.

The man straightens—he is taller than Aleksander—and turns. Gray eyes that Aleksander knows all too well look at him. Morozova doesn’t seem to understand what is happening at first, his eyes take in Aleksander as if he is a blueprint and not a person. Who was the last living person Morozova had seen?

“I’m your grandson,” even the word itself feels strange on his tongue. Something he’s never truly said. “Aleksander.”

Morozova keeps staring at him, as if he can see more than just the outside. Perhaps he _can_ see deeper, who knew the limit of what Morozova could do. Could he see Aleksander’s fears? The deep pit that lived somewhere in his chest?

“Come here,” the voice is a ruined rasp.

Aleksander comes.

“Hold this.” Morozova shoves a strange thing into Aleksander’s hands.

So it begins.

-

Aleksander lasts about a century.

He...respects his grandfather, and will always appreciate all that he’s learned—although half of it is likely unintentionally taught. But his grandfather is also so very _frustrating_.

Morozova talks rarely, if at all. It seems to take him a year to realize a question not pertaining to the making of things has been asked, and then still doesn’t answer for another year yet. And when Aleksander has tried to ask about his mother, about Morozova’s life, he gets no answer at all. As if the man has completely forgotten it.

Nevermind that he’s somehow worse than Aleksander at looking after himself—Alina would laugh, if she were there to see it. Or that sometimes he hears voices that are not his or Morozova’s, their makers vanishing when Aleksander enters the room. Voices that fill him with a now tired anger, his monstrous daughter and her windy husband clearly wishing to avoid conflict—an idea that’s laughable considering what they are.

So he packs up his belongings and heads south and west. Aiming for Shu Han this time, instead of Ravka herself.

It’s strange to realize that the Shu have the best Grisha schools in the world now. Aleksander perhaps does not learn anything new, but the way things are viewed is new. They’re also hotbeds of gossip, and not just about Shu Han.

The Ravkan civil war has ended, and where there was once one country, there are now three. Ravka to the east, Rus to the north and west, and Asnyee below Rus. Some of Aleksander’s pride is wounded at the thought—he watched over and shepherd Ravka for well over a thousand years, and now it’s all just gone. Perhaps it’s for the best.

Eventually he leaves Shu Han and settles in Ketterdam, sets up shop as a Durast jeweler. Starts going by his real name again—makes something of a name for himself even. It is disconcerting to hear people not Alina call him by his true name. Perhaps that is for the best too.

A year passes, and he grows used to the ways the world works again—or, more accurately, the ways the world has changed. Yet as things change, some things seem constant. Like Alina.

Not the woman herself, he hasn’t seen her since they parted—though he left her breadcrumbs as promised, should she seek him out—but the Saint, _Koloreva Sankta_, She Who Brings Light. With her come a cadre of other Saints, the worship of them seeming to become fashionable here in Kerch. Perhaps not enough to unseat Ghezen, but it’s a close thing.

So Aleksander’s clients request more and more Saints related items: rubies carved to look like apples, manacles made fashionable, headbands with patterns of dragon-scales. And now his current project, a collar of antlers.

The irony of it has not escaped him.

He could likely make it blindfolded should he chose, but his clients do not know how old he is. How he’s seen that particular symbol up close, how enthralling it had felt to have that power. How gray and dull it had looked when Alina had broken it.

So he must go and do ‘research.’

It is a balm to walk through the aisles of the library at the University. An air of permanence one rarely finds in the world now fills the space and soothes the mind. Everything else might change, but not _this_. He travels deeper in, he doesn’t need to actually ‘find’ what he’s looking for, only needs to put on the show of it. And away from the bustle of students he can let himself relax even more. Deeper still, until he’s in the stacks and he barely hears a whisper.

Which is why being run into catches him so off guard. The shadows behind him solidify though, keeping him and whomever it is that ran into him both upright.

The young man, or at least they look like one, steps away. His face is bowed, but his pale brown skin speaks of Zemini ancestry, while his hair is the sort of red-orange one associates with foxes. “Sorry, professor.”

A bark of laughter leaves Aleksander before he can stop it. Earning him a surprised look from bespectacled hazel eyes, and...oh, could it be? Ache fills him at the possibility. “I assure you, I’m no professor.” Aleksander hasn’t taught anything for a very long time. “I should likely apologize too, I should have been paying more attention to where I was going.”

The young man ducks his head. “Sorry, for the mistake then. It’s just, usually only professors and the desperate students come into the stacks.”

“And what does that make you then?” Aleksander can’t help himself. Not with who might be standing in front of him.

Bright, but self-deprecating laughter bounces off the books. “A_ very_ desperate student getting ready to prove his thesis in a few days.” A flicker of a smile. “Perhaps I could help you find what you’re looking for? I could use a bit of a distraction, and I’ve spent enough time in the library that I probably know it better than the staff.”

“Ravkan folklore,” Aleksander replies. Better than offering a different sort of ‘distraction.’ “Saints, specifically.”

A grin this time. “You, sir, are in luck then. Because that is the very focus of my thesis.” He starts to turn, then stops himself, facing Aleksander again and holding out a hand. “I’m Nikolai, by the way.”

Yes, Aleksander was almost afraid of that. “Aleksander.” He shakes the boy’s hand.

-

Aleksander is filing down antlers a few days later, plotting in his head how best to create the golden limning needed to make it look authentic. Gold leaf certainly, but perhaps a bit of opal as well…

The bell above his door chimes. “A moment,” he calls out. Refocusing on the work he smooths out the last prong. Setting it down he dusts himself off as best he can and steps into the main portion of his business.

Nikolai is there, admiring a clock. Aleksander stares for a moment, not that there is anything different to stare at, except perhaps that Nikolai’s clothes don’t look half the mess they did a few days ago—and the glasses have gone. “Hello.”

Turning from the clock Nikolai smiles. “Hello! I hope you don’t mind that I found you. Our conversation the other day was just too interesting to let be. Your work is quite good, by the way.”

Aleksander wants to laugh. He only inclines his head slightly. “Thank you, I do my best.” A lie, but if he showed off his true skills he would draw more attention than he wishes; too much and he’s afraid he’ll fall back into old patterns. He doesn’t want that, not anymore. Not when it might cost him Alina, or the possibility of Nikolai.

“May you improve then, and your business grow.” Nikolai’s smile turns sly and joking.

Now Aleksander does laugh. “As you say. Would you like to come into the back room? It wouldn’t be too much trouble to make some tea.” As he speaks he walks from behind the counter to the door, turning the sign to ‘closed.’

“I would much prefer coffee, but I guess I can settle for tea. I’ll take anything that keeps me awake at this point.”

“I would have thought your tests over by now.”

“Oh, they are.” Nikolai sounds cheery as they walk into the backroom. He picks up a bit of antler—a piece Alekander cut off, not one of the ones he’d been working on—turning it over in his hands. “I now just have to wait for my professors to tell me if I passed or not. Far more stressful, as it turns out.”

“I see.” The kettle boils and Aleksander pours the water into a pot. The smell of good Ravkan tea filling the room, overwhelming the smell of ground bone thankfully. “May you get the answer you want.” Perhaps not the best of wishes, but Aleksander has something of a habit of losing some of his eloquence around Nikolais.

“Thank you.” Nikolai accepts the tea when Aleksander pours and lifts it as if to give a toast. “To good grades, good business, and good friends. Yes?”

“Yes,” Aleksander agrees, clinking his cup with Nikolai’s.

-

Weeks pass. Aleksander finds himself happy, although he does also wish Alina was there. Not that it would be an easy thing to _find_ her, his own trail must be far easier to follow than her own after all this time. Even so a part of him thinks it only fair that he have this one to himself for a while. Alina had Nikolai all to herself for a time, forever ago now, why should Aleksander not have the same?

Aleksander is pulled back to the present by too-eager lips against his throat. His fingers digging into wiry hips. “Impatient,” it’s a fond chide however.

Laughter is the only response he gets for a few seconds. “It’s been three days, I missed you.” Nikolai pulls him into a kiss, forestalling the rest of the conversation. Soon enough they tumble onto the bed.

Later still, and Aleksander groans around Nikolai’s cock as he swallows him down. An echoing groan comes from above, Nikolai’s hips jerking as he comes. It doesn’t even make Aleksander pause, drinking it all and savoring the taste of it that lingers on his tongue when he pulls away.

They tangle together in what could be called cuddling, Aleksander’s own cock is still hard and hot, but he’s grown used to being patient. “I missed you too.” He even means it. Not that he’s gone longer without a Nikolai before, but it had also felt like too much at the same time. “How was your family?”

A sigh, Nikolai’s pale brown fingers absently trace Aleksander’s scars. “Family,” he answers. “Always happy to see you and pull you back into petty grievances. I do love them, but honestly. They’re happy I graduated, although don’t seem to know what to make of my degree.”

Aleksander can’t relate. “Then I’m doubly glad you’re back.”

The response earns him a grin.

Footsteps break the quiet that falls between them. Aleksander is not the only one to tense—he files it away for later though—but he’s perhaps the one who can best defend them. Even if it means giving away that he’s not just a Durast.

The footsteps are slow, but don’t seem intent on keeping themselves quiet. If it is a thief, they’re a careless one. They get close and Aleksander readies himself to lash out with shadows—he may have mastered all the Small Science, but shadows always come easiest. Then whomever it is _knocks_ on the door.

He and Nikolai both share a look. Aleksander is fairly confident he could take whomever it might be and speaks. “Yes?”

The door opens and…

Alina stands on the other side. She’s cut her hair, boyishly short—a good precaution considering women in Ketterdam are kept hidden away in houses and apartments these days—and is dressed in travel clothes, easily obscuring what little figure she has. Eyes the color of sunshine take in the whole scene and she arches one white eyebrow. “Hello, Sasha.”

“Alina.” He meets her gaze without shame, he’s done nothing wrong after all.

Nikolai looks between them for a second. “Why do I have the feeling I should be grabbing my things and throwing myself out the window.”

It startles laughter out of Aleksander and Alina. Aleksander sits fully upright, uncaring that he’s nude. “Alina, this is Nikolai.” A little corner of his mind frowns that he’s never gotten a last name for a proper introduction. “Nikolai, this is Alina Morozova.” Hard sometimes to keep track of how last names came and went or changed. “My wife.”

“Ah, so I really should be going then.” Nikolai makes to get out of bed.

Aleksander reaches out to stop him at the same time Alina speaks. “Or I could join you.” There’s promise and long banked heat in Alina’s voice. It would be good to hold and touch her again, after so long apart.

Nikolai looks at her for a second, his ears turning pink. “If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d rather you not.”

Alina covers her hurt so fast Aleksander is certain he’s the only one who notices. He wants to go and hold her, apologize—though for what? Nikolai’s preferences are not his to control.

Shrugging her coat back on Alina continues. “You’re sleeping with my husband, I’m fairly certain that gives you the right to call me Alina. And no need to leave on my account, Sasha is welcome to be with whomever he wishes. I’ll go and find a hotel for the night, see you in the morning.”

She’s gone before Aleksander can protest _that_.

“Married?” Nikolai’s voice has a hint of accusation to it.

Aleksander sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “We’ve been spending time apart recently, we’ve been married for forever it seems.” A huff leaves him at the little joke. “We’ve had other lovers before,” almost a lie. “And shared too.”

“She’s lovely, but I really am not interested. Although I guess being friends could still be in the cards.” Nikolai lays back down. “I would have liked to know though, quite a shock to find out this way.”

Aleksander joins him, propping himself just above Nikolai. “I am sorry, I was going to tell you. I wasn’t expecting her back for a time yet.” Not that they’d ever agreed when they’d meet again, only that they would. “Let me make it up to you?” A hopeful note fills his voice.

Nikolai laughs and stretches, showing himself off without an ounce of self consciousness. “You may,” he deigns with a haughty look.

Breath leaving him in a hiss Aleksander lowers himself and uses every trick he remembers to drive Nikolai wild.

-

As she promised, Alina is waiting outside his shop door in the morning. She looks calm and collected, but after a thousand years together, give or take a century, Aleksander has grown good at seeing the cracks. He sees enough to know she cried herself to sleep last night.

He draws her to him in the alcove of his door and into a hug. “I’m sorry.” He might not control Nikolai, but he dislikes that it hurt Alina.

She sighs into his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. We shouldn’t have expected him to be the same as before.”

“Still,” he kisses the top of her head before pulling away.

Another sigh from her, as she steps out into the street with him. They walk together, arm in arm, looking like any number of men starting their day out. He takes her to his usual cafe, the man behind the counter, Karl, greeting him by name—a fact that earns him a raised eyebrow from Alina—and asking after Nikolai. Too polite to ask about Alina standing next to him, thankfully.

They sit at a table by the window, the music from the radio filling the quiet. Aleksander recognizes the song as quickly as Alina does, an update to an old hymn of hers. He wonders if she knows she glows faintly as she tilts her head towards it. The glow soon fades however. “You’re looking well. How was your grandfather?”

“Interesting, but frustrating.” Reaching up he taps her temple. “When did this happen?” Her eyes had been brown a century ago, though there had been occasional glimmers of gold when she used her powers frequently.

Alina gives a heavy sigh. “I wish I knew, I didn’t even know it’d happened until I caught my reflection by accident while visiting your sister.”

He stills a little at her words. He has not thought of his sister for a long time. She’d chosen not to come with him, after all, that made her easy to ignore. Even after he’d seen the destruction she’d wrought upon Söndermane. “How is Ulla?”

“As well as I expect one such as her can be. She seemed surprised when I asked her to teach me what she could. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked her that.” Despite Alina disguising herself well, she can’t hide the feminine bent of her laughter. It turns a few heads, a fact which she’s oblivious to—or perhaps she just doesn’t care anymore. “I have no talent for singing, but there were some things I could still learn.”

Aleksander finds he wants to reach out and grab her hand, kiss her fingertips, her palm, the curve of her wrist; if only to show that he can once again. Yet even in Ketterdam, such bold displays of affection are frowned upon in public. So he contents himself with putting his hand atop hers, feeling the sun-warmth of her.

Karl comes to a stop at their table, placing the drinks they ordered before them before vanishing in the way all waiters could. Alina frowns at her cup with it’s strange ‘lid.’ “I’m fairly certain you ordered waffles.”

Grinning Aleksander lifts off his own ‘lid.’ “These are the waffles now,” he answers. Granted you could still get old style Kerch waffles, but he found he liked these ones a bit more. “Try yours.” He bit into his own, enjoying the sweet tastes of toasted wafers and caramel.

She follows his example, making an annoyed sound when hers almost breaks in two. Fondness shifts his grin into a smile as he watches her, glad he can do it once more. See the way her expression changes as she tries something new. There is much in the world, but as old as he is, it’s rare to find something _truly_ new. “It’s good, a bit soggy.”

“You let it sit too long on your tea,” his tone is fond though.

She still gives him a _look_, and heat curls in his belly. He lets her settle them into a pleasant conversation however, a part of him relieved to be back on familiar ground once more. While this Nikolai seems more willing to take control, their relationship is still too new. Whereas Alina knows every cranny of himself, and knows how to use them.

When they finally finish he takes her back to his shop, to the apartment above. Not fighting her when she shoves him on the bed.

He watches her undress, his body heating as if she’s doing it herself. Aleksander finds himself missing the white fall of her hair as she kneels across his lap, not quite touching him. He curls his own hands into fists, she might be the one naked, but he doesn’t fool himself into thinking he’s the one with the power.

Her hands cup his jaw, tilting his whole head back until he feels the strain of it in his neck. “I’ve missed you, Sasha,” the rough edge of her voice makes him shudder.

“_Solnishka_,” it is both agreement and plea. “I need you.”

Bending down she kisses him, her lips hot and bruising as she sets herself to the task of consuming him once more. He moans into her, letting her tongue tease his own back into her mouth, the sharp bite of her teeth making his hands clench tighter. Except for his mouth he holds himself still, eager for her, yet waiting for her command.

He’s beginning to become lightheaded, her kisses give him little time to breathe, but doesn't pull away. Needing this as much as she does.

When she does pull away he’s seeing spots and is grateful for the air. Not that it’s easy to breathe when those hot lips and sharp teeth make their way down his throat, clearly intent on marking him. She reaches the crook of his throat and stills. “Do you like these clothes?”

It takes a moment for his muddled mind to figure out the answer. “They’re alright, nothing special.”

Only a few seconds later the smell of burning fabric fills the air and he can feel the heat of it all over his chest. Only to be replaced by coolness when what didn’t burn falls away. She somehow makes even quicker work of his trousers.

“Quite the trick.” His cock is more enthusiastic about it than his voice.

Alina’s smile is smug. “I got bored,” is all the explanation she gives before she kneels in front of him.

He shouts as her mouth, now almost too hot, takes in his cock. He clings to his sheets, unsurprised to see shadows writhing around them. Trapping them in a bubble that reveals Alina is glowing again. Her mouth and throat work around him, tongue teasing the underside. He falls back against the bed, body matching the shadows as she teases him. “Alina, _moi soveryni, Sankta_. Please.”

She hums around him, her searing fingers touch his thighs. The world goes black, then white around him.

Only for it to slowly return. As it does he realizes there’s a different heat around his cock now, Alina having moved to take him inside her cunt while he was unconscious. When he can see again he watches her, her body all but dancing above him. “Alina, let me touch you, _please_.” Shadows follow his fingers as he raises a hand, close enough to feel the whole heat of her.

“You may,” she gasps out.

His hands fall on her hips, but the shadows are bolder, traveling up to her breasts. She gasps and arches, grinding down on him. “You will come for me again,” a demand, no matter how breathy she sounds.

“_Da_.” He does not consider saying no, even with his cock still only half-hard.

Together they move. Until, just as she wanted, he comes again, his whole body going weak at the force of it. He lets himself lay there, staring up at the ceiling. He can feel Alina curl against his chest, warm fingers tracing scars. “I missed you,” she repeats.

“I missed you too,” he finally replies. Cautiously he reaches for her face, tilting it up for a kiss. Relieved that she allows it. “Will you move in here? Or find your own place?” They have never not lived in the same place when they are together. Yet with Nikolai being as he is...it makes Aleksander uncertain.

Her lips trace his jaw again, if much more gently. “We will work something out,” she answers.

He would perhaps like a more definite answer than that, but he knows Alina won’t give it. So he does his best to put it from his mind, focusing on her possessive touches, the fact that she is _here_, no matter what problems they might have in the future.

This time it is not knocking on the door that disturbs the mood, but a pounding. Aleksander almost laughs.

A fact Alina picks up on if her eye roll is anything to go with. Yet she climbs off him and together they attempt something resembling ‘presentable.’

When the sound of the door opening reaches Aleksander he stills, only to frown when he realizes whomever’s walking is, well, actually stumbling.

“Aleksander,” Nikolai’s voice sounds slurred as he calls out.

Glancing at Alina, Aleksander sees her arching an eyebrow at him in clear question. He shakes his head, he hadn’t planned on seeing Nikolai today, yet the man’s clearly drunk, so better him here than out on the streets.

Stepping out of the bedroom, Aleksander sees that his assumption is true. Nikolai stands in the middle of the main room, swaying slightly, and eyes glassy. “Nikolai. What’s going on?”

Nikolai’s eyes narrow and his brow furrows, as if Aleksander’s asked the hardest question in the world. “Where...is she?” He stumbles towards Aleksander, who catches him before he can fall.

“Alina?” Aleksander frowns. Having no idea what the other man plans—and not liking it one bit.

As if the question summoned her—perhaps she’s just perfected the first Nikolai’s sense of good timing—Alina exits the bedroom, wearing one of his robes. Aleksander does his best to ignore the thrum that sends through him.

Nikolai beams in the way only drunks can. “Alina!” He starts to pull away from Aleksander. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Before Nikolai can get any further Aleksander grabs his wrist, sending enough power through him to knock him out. Nikolai’s clearly drunk enough that he thinks that’s a good decision, so Aleksander is really just saving him from himself. With ease he scoops the other man up, laying him out on the couch.

“He’s not going to be happy when he wakes up,” despite her words Alina’s voice holds no judgement.

“It would be worse, I think, if he really had kissed you. He’s drunk enough that he’d probably believe he just passed out on his own.” Absently Aleksander clears out more of the alcohol, he’d prefer Nikolai to be mostly sober when he wakes up.

Alina sighs as she goes into the kitchen. “True. Poor dear,” she sounds almost fond.

Aleksander gives a huff of laughter. “You’re just saying that because you don’t have to deal with hungover Nikolai.”

“True,” she beams. “Although I’ll be nice enough to help, I do want him to like me after all.”

“So generous,” he murmurs. Only to yelp as she flicks a beam of heat at his cheek. Her expression is prim as he turns to look at her.

-

A week passes, and something of a pattern begins to form. With all the time Aleksander spends with his partners, he’s amazed he has any time to do actual work.

Alina’s out shopping at the moment, however, leaving him time to get said work done. He’d finished off the antler piece a while ago, and now is working on a hairpin carved to look like a tree—the client had originally wanted roses, but Aleksander had refused outright.

He hears the bell over the door chime and sets down his work. Entering the main room he smiles when he sees Nikolai. “I wasn’t expecting you.” He goes over to the man, embracing him from behind and kissing the nape of his neck.

Nikolai begins to turn and Aleksander lets him, only to frown slightly as he sees Nikolai’s face. It’s the face he’s learned intimately over the past month or so, even the hazel eyes are the same. And yet… “You’re not Nikolai.”

The man who looks like Nikolai, but isn’t, laughs. “That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

Before Aleksander can even open his mouth to question what he means, the world goes dark. His last thought is to how annoyed Alina’s going to be.

-

Aleksander doesn’t know how long he’s been knocked out, only that when he comes to he’s tied to a chair. He keeps his breathing even, and only opens his eyes enough to see, without giving away to his captors that he’s awake. There are three people in the bare room with him, a room he doesn’t recognize.

One is the not-Nikolai; the next, a tall, wiry looking, bald, Shu man; and the third a short, curvaceous woman with dark hair pulled back in a braid.

“I know we need a jeweler,” the woman says, her voice has a Fjerdan lilt to it, although nothing else about her suggests that. “But would’ve been better to stick to knowns, nevermind how pissed he’s going to be you kidnapped his boyfriend.” Under her voice Aleksander can hear the swell and fade of conversations of a crowd of people.

The Shu and not-Nikolai both snort. “He’s a goody-goody,” the Shu man says. “Gonna blab to the _Stad_ the moment we let him loose.”

Aleksander tests his bonds, whomever did them knew their stuff. Yet even bound like this, Aleksander’s not powerless, the shadows will still answer his call these days. He doesn’t act just yet though, curious to know what might be going on.

Not-Nikolai leans back in his chair. “You underestimate my brother’s tastes, Gan,”—Aleksander does his best not to frown—“there’s definitely more to Mr. Morozova than meets the eye.” There’s a brief pause. “Like the fact that he’s faking being unconscious now.”

Opening his eyes fully he sees not-Nikolai staring at him, hazel eyes assessing—a Grisha? It had to be the only way he could tell that Aleksander was faking unconsciousness.

Yet that thought gets thrown out the window a few seconds later. “How could you tell?” Gan frowns, causing his whole face to ripple. “He seemed unconscious to me.”

“The Small Science can’t tell you everything, Gan.”

Before Gan, or the woman, can respond to that there’s a commotion outside. Raised voices, one of which Aleksander recognizes as Nikolai’s. The woman gives not-Nikolai a look. “Good luck trying to talk you way out of this one, Mikkel.”

The door slams open, Alina storming in, golden eyes bright. Nikolai trails after, looking bemused. And behind him is a willowy blonde, wringing her hands. “I tried to stop them, Mik, but she wouldn’t listen.” Green eyes glitter with unshed tears.

“It’s alright, Fran,” the woman speaks before Mikkel can. Aleksander glances at her, then back at Fran. Sisters, he notes absently, they shared the same green eyes and cheekbones.

Fran nods, and her tears dry almost instantly, quite the actress.

“Sasha?” Alina’s voice focuses him, turns his attention back to her and the question in her eyes. He gives a little nod in answer. He’s fine, other than realizing things are not what he possibly thought they were.

Nikolai pushes past Alina and comes to stand in front of Mikkel. Aleksander and Alina both let out curses. Identical twins. Oh _Saints_. Alina huffs, as if she’s just heard a good joke. Nikolai has the good sense to flash them both apologetic looks. “You can’t keep kidnapping my boyfriends, Mik,” there’s only a bare edge of anger in his voice. He sounds more tired than anything, if Aleksander’s honest.

Mikkel looks unconcerned. “I’m your brother, who you date is kind of my business. Also you wouldn’t stop bragging about what a good Durast he was, I got curious.”

“As fun as this all is,” Alina steps forward and all the rest of the gang—and Aleksander is beginning to realize that they might actually be a _gang_—tense. “My husband and I are going.”

“Gods and Saints,” Fran says. “Really, Luk?” The name makes Aleksander still.

If Alina notices it too, she’s decided to ignore it for now. Going over towards Aleksander instead. Before she gets halfway the black haired woman is there, knife out and at Alina’s throat. “You’re right, this is fun. But neither of you are going until Mikkel says you are.”

Alina sighs. A few seconds later the woman drops her knife with a yelp, all eyes flying to the floor where it landed, the whole knife still glowing white hot; a moment later the smell of burning wood fills the room. Alina crouches down and picks the knife up, as she stands the light and heat of it dies away, leaving only a blade, which she offers back to the woman. On the floor the shape of the knife’s been burned into the floor. Alina hasn’t been this overt with her powers in a long time.

The woman reaches gingerly out for it, clearly worried it’s still hot. When it’s not she takes it back. She doesn’t put it away however.

Mikkel sighs. “Maggie, stand down.” The woman shoots an angry look at Alina, but goes back to her previous position.

With a sigh of his own Aleksander shreds the ropes holding him. Bringing his hands in front of him he rubs the redness at his wrists. “I think it’s time for an explanation, or two.” He lets himself feel a little bit of pleasure at the surprised looks.

-

Thankfully they don’t continue the conversation in the room he’d come to in, instead moving down the hall to a much more well appointed room—it looks like some merch’s study than a gang’s hideaway. Aleksander is unsurprised when Alina shoves him towards the couch, sitting next to him and glowering at anyone else who tries to approach, even Nikolai.

Nikolai doesn’t protest, instead moving with Mikkel behind the large desk and taking one of the two chairs. There’s not even an argument over who gets which one. Fran, Maggie, and Gan take the other chairs. Nikolai sighs and leans forward, elbows on the desk. “I guess I should be apologizing, shouldn’t I?” There’s a self-deprecating note in his voice. “I didn’t actually mean to keep it from you this long.”

“Is your name even Nikolai?” Alina’s voice sounds cold and distant. Her fingers wrap around Aleksander’s wrists, warm and comforting.

“No, I’m Lukas.” That his name isn’t what Aleksander thought it was hurts more than the fact he might be a criminal. Aleksander would think he’d been fooling himself, except the eyes. Eyes that now rested in the faces of two men instead of one. “Honestly, Mik, this could’ve gone better.”

Mikkel’s own hazel eyes are assessing, focused on Aleksander and Alina. “You’re too sweet on him.” The words make Aleksander huff. “I’m more concerned about the job we’re supposed to pull. And puzzled by Mrs. Morozova’s ability.”

“How did you even do that without a flame?” Gan asks.

Alina sniffs. “I’m most certainly _not_ an Inferni.” Aleksander has to bite back a smile at how well she radiates offended.

Fran is the next one to chime in, wonder and awe in her face as she does so. “Sun Summoner,” she says it almost like a prayer.

“Sun Summoners are a myth, a legend,” Maggie replies. Her sister might believe, but she clearly doesn’t.

“There certainly hasn’t been mention of one for almost a thousand years,” Nik-_Lukas_ says. “Not since the _Sankta Koroleva_.” There’s a question in his eyes for Aleksander as he speaks.

Aleksander doesn’t know how to answer. He thinks he might still love him, but...that doesn’t stop the feeling of betrayal.

Alina fluffs her hair, an action that seems more like fidgeting than anything else with how short she’d cut it. “Can you blame me for keeping quiet? I’m not exactly interested in the attention. I’m no Saint, and certainly not a queen.” Her gaze turns on Mikkel, eyes narrowing. “And if we don’t get answers soon, we’ll see how well my fist likes your face.”

Niko-_Lukas_ and Fran both laugh. If the threat bothers Mikkel, on the other hand, he doesn’t show it. “As I was saying…”

He doesn’t get any further before Gan interrupts. “Don’t tell them, Mik, like I said they’ll blab to the _Stad_. Don’t need that heat on is.” He crosses his arms, clearly against them wholeheartedly. Alina meets his gaze unflinchingly.

It makes Aleksander grateful that she’s here, that she can still focus and ask questions while he...mourns in a way. Although it is not a true loss, that doesn't stop it from hurting.

“Gan.” Mik’s expression turns cold, and Aleksander isn’t sure if he should be relieved or not that he recognizes it. “I do believe you’re forgetting who works for whom at the moment. You and Maggie both, you don’t have to like it, but if you want your cuts you’ll shut up and trust me.”

Silence fills the space, but only for a few seconds, Lukas seemingly content to break the tension. “We...have a job we’re planning, it requires a good enough Durast to make replicas of some pieces in the National Museum. There’re locals we could go to,” he shrugs. “But they’re too likely to cut in, or talk to someone else, knowing full well what the info’s worth.”

Aleksander manages to focus some, bracing himself for more hurt. “Is that why you became my...partner?” Alina stills at his question, before her fingers turn to stroking, seeking to comfort him.

Hurt flashes across Lukas’ face, which is answer enough, but he does speak. “No, swear it to the Saints and Ghezen. You being a jeweler was a...pleasant coincidence.”

“So, you want my husband to make pieces for you then?” Alina, thankfully, steps back in. “You could’ve just paid him, instead of this whole show.”

“You’re not saying no,” Mikkel points out easily. Aleksander doesn’t know whether to laugh or be angry at the assessing look Mikkel is giving Alina. If the both of them are Nikolai...can he begrudge her? It’s enough to make him wish they were alone so they could speak freely.

Alina doesn’t answer right away, instead she turns to look at Aleksander, an eyebrow raised in question.

Despite the emotions rolling through him, the consideration is comforting. She doesn’t have to ask him, after all.

They’ve been many things together, Saint and Shadow, Queen and Pet, Wife and Husband; but even with the first Nikolai they’ve never truly done anything _criminal_. It should be an interesting experience.

He nods.

-

An hour later Aleksander and Alina are being hurried out of The Kennel, Aleksander has heard worse names for a casino, by Lukas—it’s getting easier—and Fran. The latter who looks like a young man now thanks to Gan. He’d offered to work on Alina, but she’d refused—Aleksander does not blame her.

During the day the Rood District—an area Aleksander has not frequented before, but knows of from the gossip of his customers—is subdued, but there are still crowds of people going in and out of the various casinos, suit clad barkers standing out against the colorful facades of their respective places, even women walk boldly. The four of them cut through the crowds with ease, Fran and Lukas guiding them out of the Rood entirely and towards the National Museum.

Aleksander shouldn’t be surprised that when they enter, Lukas nudges him towards an empty hallway, while Fran and Alina continue on. Alina turns her head and gives him a concerned look, but he shakes his head. He’s going to have to face this alone sometime. Sooner is better than later.

He exhales sharply when he’s pinned against the wall, hazel eyes earnestly looking into his own, before Lukas dips his head down. “I _am_ sorry,” the words are murmured against his throat.

“Why?” Is all Aleksander can really ask.

Lukas’ sigh makes Aleksander’s flesh prickle. “It was nice, to forget my life for a time, be someone far softer than I truly am. I _do_ quite like what I do.” There’s a press of a smile. “But being Nikolai, harried student in love, was just as enjoyable.” A breath. “Even after I found out about your wife,” humor colors his voice.

Aleksander stills. “‘Love?’” He could have hoped for it, he’s loved two Nikolais now, and he had perhaps begun to love this one as well. Did the difference of a name really mean that much?

“Yes,” it comes out a whisper. “Love is a dangerous thing, but I find I couldn’t help myself.” He pulls his face away from Aleksander’s neck. “Is there a chance you’ll forgive me? Or did I ruin everything?” Hardened criminal he might be, but Aleksander finds he can read the sadness in Lukas’ face; that it _is_ true, and not all lies.

“I…” Alekander reaches up to cup Lukas’ cheek, before running it through his red-orange hair. “I wish I knew, but...there may be a chance, yes.” It’s not as if he can tell the man why he’s so hesitant, most people would refuse to believe such things. Even with Alina revealing herself a Sun Summoner.

Lukas turns his head, and kisses Aleksander’s wrist, the sensation sending a shudder through Aleksander. “I guess that will have to be enough.” A flash of a familiar charming smile, though the edges are too rough. “I think we’d best find the ladies before anyone finds them out, yes?”

Aleksander huffs, knowing Alina he doubts that’s an actual possibility, but he’ll humor the other man.

Arm in arm they make their deeper into the museum, past the general art galleries towards the collection in question they are apparently planning on stealing from. _Gemstones of the Ancient World!_ The signs proudly proclaim as they enter. Aleksander bites his tongue to keep from laughing.

Alina is easy to spot, even when she tries to blend in; or perhaps that is only something Aleksander has honed over the years. She and Fran look like brothers as they drift from display to display.

He and Lukas are only a short distance away when Alina and Fran come to a stop in front of another display. “Oh Saints,” Alina’s voice holds dread and resignment. “It’s even uglier.”

The words are enough to hurry Aleksander, whose own eyes widen when he comes to a stop next to her.

The Lanstov emerald rests there on a pillow. No longer a ring, but recut—poorly, Aleksander notes—and set into a necklace, rubies and pearls surround it, for no reason Aleskander can discern. Alina is not wrong in her assessment. “It’s certainly a crime in and of itself.” Aleksander almost wants to steal it himself just so he can at least try to repair it, although he doubts it’s possible.

Lukas laughs next to him, while Fran gives them both a bemused look. “Well get a good look, or at least as much of one as you can stand. Because it’s one of the ones Mik’s singled out.” Of course it is.

-

After another hour of wandering through the exhibit—there are a few other stones pointed out to him and Alina, but none are quite so personal—they leave. Much to Aleksander’s relief, he and Alina are waved off. Lukas flashing them as smile as his arm comes around Fran’s shoulders. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

He and Alina don’t question it, they’re not likely to try and run away; but if they did he doubts anyone could find them.

Walking into his storefront feels strange—he’s not sure he wants to know whether it was Mikkel, or Lukas and Alina, that locked up—as if the past few hours hadn’t truly happened.

He doesn’t fight as Alina leads him upstairs into the apartment, settling him on the couch as she goes into the kitchen and starts tea. He accepts the mug when she shoves it into his hands, and dosen’t even blink when she sits on the low table in front of him. “Well, today has certainly been a day.”

A snort leaves him, making the surface of his tea dance. “It’s...I don’t know what to believe.”

Carefully Alina bridges the distance between them and gives him a soft kiss. “I don’t know what to make of it either. I...I think they’re both,” she pulls away, making a face. “Well, it’s Nikolai, trust him to do something so frustrating and yet endearing. Although if Mikkel kidnaps you again I will punch him.”

Laughter feels good, as weak as it is. Without thought he tugs the warmth in the mug into himself, enough that he can drink. “What will you do?” They had both thought her path with Nikolai would be that of friends. Yet if the twins are _both_ him… Strangely, there is a curl of jealousy.

He pins it down and makes himself examine it. He has never been jealous of Nikolai, or at least he has not been since they destroyed and rebuilt him. So why now?

Alina lets out a sigh. “I don’t know, Sasha. I thought we’d both seen all the strangeness the world had to offer.” A wan smile curls her mouth. “The world certainly seems to enjoy proving how arrogant that belief is. If he is also Nikolai…” She takes a drink of her own tea. “Then you have yours and I have mine and...I think that makes me sad in a way. That I won’t see the way he takes you apart, that you won’t see how bright he makes me shine.”

Ah, _that_ is why. “We have never not shared, have we?”

She shakes her head. “Not really.” She sets her mug down and cups his cheek with a hand. “You were even there the first night, even if it was punishment.”

Her words dredge up the faint recollection that now is—he might treasure his memories of Nikolai, any Nikolai, but that doesn’t change how time diminishes even love. How hateful, how angry he’d been, that someone lesser than her was the first to have that pale flesh, that bright beauty. “How does this work, then?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats. “But perhaps we can find other ways of sharing. Perhaps Mikkel will not suit or satisfy as Lukas does. Perhaps you and I will not enjoy being criminals, as new as it is.” Again she bridges the distance and kisses him, more lingering this time. “Whatever happens, you’ll have me, always.”

Blinking back tears he turns his head, kissing her palm. “_Da, moi soverenyi._”

-

The next afternoon, Lukas comes to the shop, Gan in tow. Lukas’ smile is mildly sheepish. “I don’t think Mik trusts me to keep a level head around you.”

The suggestion makes Aleksander laugh. Gan makes a face, though Aleksander finds himself doubting it’s because Lukas is flirting. He leads them back into his workshop, Lukas’ eyebrows rising up into his hair when he sees various gemstones scattered about Aleksander’s main workbench. “That was fast.” Even Gan looks vaguely impressed.

Aleksander shrugs. “It’s not hard, though I want to go back and make exact sketches.” He doesn’t doubt his memory, but it’d be easier to have something to work off of. Less likely he’ll try and ‘fix’ things so they actually _look_ like nice pieces. Which, while good for his ego and sense of taste, is not what’s being asked of him. “Although I’m not sure if there is a deadline or not.”

Lukas shrugs. “The exhibit leaves at the end of the month, Mik wants us to hit it then, less security when it’s all being packed up.”

Hmm, not what Aleksander would have thought, but this is not his field of expertise. Two weeks is more than enough time then.

Alina descends from the apartment. “I thought I heard voices.” She eyes Lukas and Gan assessingly. “I’ll need one of you to volunteer to help me get groceries. Otherwise Sasha is likely to starve himself while he makes your gemstones,” her voice is fond despite the words.

“I’m hardly _that_ bad, not considering my grandfather.” As Alina well knows by this point.

She ducks down and absently kisses his cheek. “As you’ve said, darling. Come on then, Lukas.”

“I’m fairly certain you said ‘volunteer,’” he protests.

Even Gan sniggers a little as Alina loops her arm through Lukas’ and pulls him along. “It’s sweet that you think I meant that.” Honestly Aleksander would prefer she’d taken Gan, but he also has a feeling it’s for the best. Lukas is...enjoyable company, but a bit of a distraction.

“Make yourself at home,” Aleksander says absently to Gan. Aleksander himself settles back at his workbench, picking up a garnet and turning it in his hands. He did his best to focus, to feel the structure of it in his mind, but he can feel Gan’s eyes on him. Letting out a slow hissing breath he sets the garnet down and turns. “What?”

Gan is sitting in the client's chair, almost dwarfing it, with his crossed arms and glowering expression he’s clearly not happy to be here. “I know people,” Gan says. “And I know you’re hiding things, big things even.”

Aleksander is too well practiced to tense at those words, either Gan’s telling the truth, or he’s fishing. “I’m fairly certain working for your crew doesn’t mean I have to tell you my life’s story.” Even if, after this, he and Alina are convinced to join up with them, he doesn’t owe them that.

“How did you get the ropes off? I went back and looked at them, they were completely shredded. You shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

“If a Grisha is skilled enough they don’t need their hands unbound.” Which is mostly a lie, but Aleksander’s not about to reveal himself as a shadow summoner. “Yours is the best Tailoring work I’ve seen in a long time, you should know that.”

Gan’s eyes narrow even more. “I’m not Grisha,” he replies. “I’m _Zowa_.” That he uses the Zemni word surprises Aleksander. Even if he would argue that they, ultimately, mean the same thing.

He also doesn’t want to argue semantics. “Doesn’t change that you know that there is more possible than most people know. I’m a Durast, making and unmaking things is easy.” He shrugs to sell the lie. “Now I’d prefer if you stopped _staring_ at me, it makes it hard to concentrate.”

“If your secrets end up screwing us over, you’ll find out how good I am.”

Aleksander doesn’t doubt Gan will try.

-

Gold flows like water under his touch as he works; it’s habit, not what he actually wants. But in Aleksander’s defense he’s a little distracted.

Alina, Lukas, and Mikkel are upstairs, talking. He can’t actually hear what they’re saying, but that the two of them are with _Alina_ is distracting enough. Aleksander sighs and lets go of the gold, it solidifying in an abstract shape—he’ll have to reshape it again when he can focus, and this time try to remember it’s supposed to look hand, not Grisha, made.

Standing he heads upstairs, the shadows muffling what few sounds he makes. He unlatches the door, but doesn’t open it fully, curious to know what they might be talking about without him.

“...does it extend?” It’s harder to tell Lukas and Mikkel apart when he only has their voices to go off of. He thinks it might be Mikkel however.

There’s a brief rattle in the kitchen. “Far enough,” Alina replies tartly, definitely Mikkel then—she’s not so biting with Lukas. “Are you going to keep asking questions about my powers? Because I’m liable to toss you out the window if you do. I’m not interested in being your weird experiment.”

“She’s got you there, Mik,” a snort that’s all Lukas follows.

Footsteps, and a brief sound of surprise from Alina. “What can I say? I enjoy a good puzzle. Whether it’s a crime, or a person.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s flirting,” Alina’s tone is arch. Aleksander can just imagine her vaguely haughty expression. How it would invite rather than forbid—if Alina wanted something not to happen she made it very clear.

“You are a married woman, Mrs. Morozova,”—Aleksander’s snort mirrors Alina’s—“I would be a poor guest if I tried to steal you away from your husband.”

“Oh gods and saints the both of you,” Lukas sounds grouchy.

Aleksander pushes the door open fully, stepping into the apartment. Lukas is seated at the table, hands wrapped around a mug, while Alina and Mikkel stand in the kitchen, one of Alina’s hands raised up to Mikkel’s lips.

“Sasha,” Alina greets warmly. She tugs her hand free of Mikkel and goes to him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Would you like some tea? There’s shortbreads too.”

“Yes,” he answers, going over to Lukas and joining him. He doesn’t kiss the man on the cheek, but he does take one of Lukas’ hands in his own, letting his thumb rub over rough knuckles. It earns him a smile from Lukas.

Who leans closer as Alina sets a mug and plate of cookies in front of Aleksander. “I feel I should be apologizing for my brother, he’s an awful man.” It’s said with a grin.

“As if you’re any better, Luk,” Mikkel’s tone is arch.

“Yes, yes,” Alina buts in, sharing an amused look with Aleksander. “You’re both frightful Hounds, now eat your tea and cookies.”

All three of them do as she says.

-

Aleksander hadn’t quite meant to, but he’d saved doing the Lantsov...necklace for last.

Now he’s got no choice but to work on it. He turns one of the emeralds he’d made over in his hands, seeing how it played in the light. Frowning when there’s not a flaw where there should be. He closes his eyes, recalling the slight divot from a careless hand, feels the stone shift underneath his fingers. When he turns it again the light moves as it should, dipping into that divot as it glances across that facet.

He picks up the second and makes sure it shows the same.

Warm hands come over his shoulders, settling on his chest. “Come to bed, Sasha,” Alina’s voice is sleepy.

Closing his eyes for a moment he lets himself lean against her. “I’ve only got a few days, I want this done.” It doesn’t help he’s making two copies, instead of one.

Alina’s sigh ruffles his hair. "A few hours won't make much difference, in fact I dare say it'll make you _better_." Her tone is fond however.

He sets the emerald down, raising his hands to grasp her arms. "Better to have it done sooner than later," he replies. “Then all we have to worry about is everyone possibly dying."

She heats her hands up until they're stinging hot. "Don't say that," there's a note of anger in her voice. "I'm not losing him again, not so soon." It doesn't matter which she's referring to, Aleksander knows. But he finds the words comfort, because if anyone can do it, Alina can. She's already done so many impossible things.

"They won't die," he agrees. "I want this to go right though. Want you to have this." Perhaps it's not his best idea, to steal from thieves, but the emerald is _Alina's_. And it's not as if they'll recognize it when he's done. She deserves to have it again, even if that Nikolai is so much dust now, it's still a reminder of what they've had and shared.

She sighs again. "Romantic, and impractical."

Aleksander tilts his head up to smile at her. "Both things I excel at, as you should know by now. Gold or silver?"

“Silver,” she answers after a long moment. “They always put me in gold, and I want something different.” It perhaps says something about the both of them that she’s not trying to dissuade him from this course of action.

He stands and lets her take his hands in her own. “Silver then,” he agrees. Not fighting when she leads him up to the apartment and into bed.

-

Aleksander sits in Lukas’ chair in the study above The Kennel, waiting for everyone to get back. Alina, meanwhile paces, muttering to herself in Ravkan—well, Old Ravkan now. She has never been as patient as he.

Footsteps approach, though whether their one of the crew’s, or some staff person checking in on them again, Aleksander can’t tell. He gets his answer soon enough when the door opens and Mikkel steps in, cocksure grin on his face.

“Well?” Alina’s voice holds a note of impatience.

Mikkel turns his attention to her, but instead of answering with words he marches right up to her and pulls her into a sweeping dip. Kissing her with great aplomb. Aleksander is almost relieved there’s no jealousy, only mild amusement.

Alina is not quite sputtering when Mikkel raises her back up and releases her. A fact Mikkel seems unbothered by. “My part of the plan went flawlessly, and when I left things were still going as expected. Fran, Lukas, and Gan should be back shortly with the goods.” He grins and manages to spin Alina around, although as he does so he watches Aleksander, as if searching for a hint of displeasure.

“It’s her you should be worried about,” Aleksander has no problem commenting on it. “Not me.”

Expertly, Alina spins herself out of Mikkel’s grasp and falls onto the couch. “He’s telling the truth,” Alina says primly—with an undercurrent of anger. “I certainly can’t recall the last time I listened to him.” There is a sharpness to her smile that perhaps only Aleksander understands.

“As I’m beginning to see,” Mikkel comments. Somehow managing to join Alina on the couch without laying atop her, or moving her. “You’re certainly the strangest couple I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you,” Alina replies. Aleksander just snorts.

This time it’s not one set of footsteps, but many. All of them coming at once, as if it really were a rush of dogs and not people. The door bursts open. Fran practically shines, Lukas is grinning from ear to ear, and even Gan is smiling. Maggie trails behind the three of them, eyes glittering.

Aleksander feels pleased that Lukas comes to him and sweeps him up in the same sort of kiss his brother had given Alina. “Gods and Saints, I can’t believe we actually did it.”

Fran giggles delightly as she takes one of the many chairs. “I wish they were all that easy, they practically handed them over to us.” She makes a grabbing motion at Maggie. “Come on, I want to see them again.” Everyone else quiets at her words, as if as eager as she.

Maggie has enough of a sense of drama that she makes them wait, pulling out the box slowly. Only for Gan to snatch it from her hands with an annoyed sound. “I’m kicking your ass tomorrow for that,” she tells him brightly.

He doesn’t have long to gloat that he got the box from her, Fran stealing it away just as quickly. Unlike her sister she pulls off the top and plucks out the first well packed piece she touches. Perhaps the most impressive part is that she manages to unwrap it and keep the box in her hands away from Gan. Lukas and Mikkel watch almost fondly.

It’s not the Lantsov emerald, but a different piece: yellow diamonds and amber layered together to create a Zemeni lion brooch, it’s eyes bloodthirsty rubies. It looks quiet fetching as she pins it to her courrier’s jacket. “I know we’re going to sell it, but it’s kind of a shame,” she gives a forlorn sigh.

“It’s flash that would get you noticed,” Maggie reassures. “Draw too much attention.”

Alina untagles herself from Mikkel and extracts the box from Fran, rooting around more discerningly. Finding what she’s looking for she sets the box on the desk and unwraps it. “Saints, you somehow got uglier,” she says it more to the emerald in her hands than the room itself. She turns it over in her hands, the emerald and rubies glinting. “How could anyone think this was a good idea.”

Mikkel goes up to her, gently taking it from her fingers. “Not for us to judge,” he says lightly as he sets it on the desk. “I’m more concerned with the money it’ll bring us.” His expectant gaze lands on Aleksander.

“A few million kruge each, at least, if you find the right buyer.” He’s studied them enough to know that without looking. “Would probably get more if you were willing to travel to the continent. Plenty of Rus and Ravkans with too much money and not enough sense.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lukas grins.

-

A week later he and Alina walk back into The Kennel. Her new necklace—he’d decided on platinum instead of silver—glitters under the bright lights, the emerald scales of the serpent catching the eye. It’s nothing like the true Rusalye, but both of them are fine with that.

It’s hard to tell if Mikkel’s eyeing the necklace, or Alina; although Aleksander also wonders if it even matters. Mikkel is clearly drawn to Alina, although if Alina feels the same she’s playing coy about it. A fact that should bother Aleksander, but doesn’t. Alina is allowed to keep her own council still, does not share her every thought with him.

Over the course of the night the two of them are parted. Although the only truly worrying moment is when he sees Alina and Lukas on a couch together, their heads bowed towards each other, clearly intent on whatever conversation they’re having. It’s perhaps more of an excited sort of worry on the other hand.

He’s tempted to ask Lukas about it when the other man sweeps him away. Lukas, however, is far too distracting with his kisses and smiles. Aleksander doesn’t even argue when Lukas drags him out of The Kennel. The night air is bracing cold as they make their way east out of the Rood District, over East Stave Canal, to an out of the way house that looks like all the rest on it’s quiet street.

It’s clearly the Hounds’ place, or perhaps only one of many; it fits with study Lukas and Mikkel keep.

When they enter there are two Hounds hanging about in the entryway, who nod at Lukas and let them pass. As they make their way up they encounter a few other Hounds, including Maggie, who eyes them before retreating to a room.

He and Lukas eventually find and empty bedroom and fall into the bed. Aleksander feeling content as he drifts off into sleep in his lover’s arms.

-

It’s always a strange and exhilarating thing to be tied down, even moreso with Alina seeming to tower over him, glowing faintly—casting more light in the room that the few candles about. Her fingers trail down his chest, leaving faint sunburns in their wake.

“_Solnishka_, more, please.” She’s been teasing him long enough that it’s a torture all on it’s own.

Alina only sits herself on the bed next to him, a glint in her eye. “Shhh, Sasha, you’ll like what I have planned, don’t worry.”

He doesn't, but that doesn’t stop the agony from being too much, even if it’s what he wants. She knows how to walk that fine line though, to dance along it as she pleases. Knows how to give him exactly what he wants, even if he doesn’t think he wants it.

A knock on the door startles him, but Alina’s unperturbed. Wide-eyed he watches her go to answer, heart pounding as he hopes it’s nothing important, that Alina will make them go away and return her attention to him.

“Lukas,” Alina’s voice is warm as she all but throws the door open, casing a square of light on Aleksander’s chest. As Aleksander’s other lover steps into the room, Aleksander feels himself tensing, having no idea what’s going to happen next. Even moreso when Alina doesn’t close the door all the way. “Don’t be too careful,” she jokes as she rises up to kiss Lukas’ cheek.

“No,” Lukas says as his gaze travels over Aleksander, making him all too aware of his nudity. “I don’t suppose I will.” The promise in those words has Aleksander shuddering.

Alina laughs, the sound only cutting off as she leaves the room. In the dim light Aleksander does his best to track Lukas as he approaches, it becomes easier when he steps into the light of the candles.

Body stilling, Aleksander lets out a sound when he sees what’s in Lukas’ pale brown hands.

The sound earns him an all too knowing smile. “Alina said you might like this.” The slim knife glitters as Lukas gives it a lazy twirl. “I’ll say, I’ve never thought about doing this in my bed play before, but I’m curious to try.” He takes the spot Alina vacated. Aleksander shudders as Lukas rests the tip of the knife against his skin, lightly tracing one of the volcra scars that still spider all over his body. In all of Aleksander’s centuries he’s never thought to try and heal them.

“Did Alina give you all of these?” His tone is curious.

Aleksander shakes his head. “No, I was...attacked, I only just managed to make it out alive. Alina...doesn’t mind hurting me, but not in that way.” He wouldn’t want her to, a knife is not her way.

The blade is sharp and thin enough that at first, Aleksander doesn’t realize it’s sunken into his skin. Not until he sees the blood welling up. “Saints, _Lukas_,” he doesn’t know which one he’s praying to. His body strains against the bonds holding him.

Lukas lets out a deep, satisfied, laugh, eyes darkening. “No Saints here, Aleksander. Only me, and I’m not sure how merciful I’m feeling.”

Crying out, Aleksander can feel his cock twitching, orgasm of a sort rushing over him. Lukas laughs again, and just over that sound, Aleskander can hear a bed creaking above them. Soon followed by sounds he knows all too well from Alina.

This time he feels the knife go in, making him whimper, eyes going to Lukas. “You should be more concerned about me, lovely, than what Mikkel and your wife might be getting up to.” His smile is sharp.

“Yes, Lukas,” Aleksander lets out with a shuddering gasp.

“Good. Let’s see how well you do then.” Lukas drags the knife down.

Over the next few hours all Aleksander knows is pain and pleasure and blood; the feel of his body healing whenever Lukas stops and makes him close his wounds—it doesn’t surprise Aleksander that Alina told Lukas that as well. His own cries easily drowning out the sounds of Alina and Mikkel above them.

Not that he’s making much noise at the moment, Lukas’ cock filling his mouth and throat. It’s hard to breath, but even that pales to the feeling of that delicate blade dancing over his thighs. He can’t speak, but he still begs as best he can, always wanting more. Each sound making his throat convulse.

“Fuck,” Lukas’ snarl is angry and pleased. He pulls away from Aleksander. Who takes a grateful breath, but also whimpers at the loss.

Only to let out a ragged scream when that knife buries itself in his shoulder, the blade long enough that he feels it slide out the other end. If any blood wells up, it’s lost in the mess already covering the both of them. He only barely feels Lukas lift his hips up, but he certainly feels Lukas begin to shove his way inside, Aleksander’s spit not making it any easier.

“Lukas, Lukas, _Lukas_.” Aleksander feels almost incoherent with the need to not just orgasm—he’s already done that more time tonight than he can count—but to have true release, his cock looking almost the same color as the blood smeared across Lukas’ stomach.

His begging is met by grunts from Lukas as he works his way deeper into Aleksander. The pleasure and pain of that joining with the rest of it inside him, winding him tighter and tighter. Above them Alina lets out a broken scream, followed by an animalistic snarl. “Me, lovely,” Lukas snaps as fingers dig into one of the still open cuts. “Only me.”

Aleksander gives a broken scream of his own, tears welling in his eyes.

“Please, Lukas. Too much, I need…” Aleksander’s pleading turns incoherent as Lukas fills him completely, only to start the torturous act of pulling out.

Hot and sticky fingers wrap around his painfully hard cock. Lukas lowering himself to murmur in Aleksander’s ear. “You have been better than I could have ever wished for, lovely. It almost makes me want to keep pushing, see how far I can break you.” He begins to push back in as his hand begins to pump. “But I’ll content myself with this: come.”

It’s nothing short of a command and Aleksander can do nothing but obey, his voice hoarse as he shouts. His whole world going white.

When he comes to the knife is still in his shoulder, the pain of it a dull throb, but Lukas is sprawled out next to him, head propped up on a hand, watching him. Aleksander’s been unbound, and there’s a soreness in him that suggests Lukas kept fucking him while he was out of it; the thought makes Aleksander shudder.

“Welcome back.” There’s a wicked curl to Lukas’ smile. Reaching out with his other hand he grabs the handle of the knife and jerks it out. Aleksander is so wrung out all he can do is twitch and make a weak sound.

The noise Lukas makes back is all too pleased. He cleans the knife on the sheets, before placing it on the side table. “Are you alright?”

It takes a few moments for Aleksander to muster up enough energy to talk—Lukas is not Alina, but Aleksander has been too well trained to give a non-verbal answer. “Yes,” it comes out barely a whisper. “...Saints…”

He can feel Lukas’ hand move to his stomach, dragging itself through the blood and semen there. Aleksander watches as that had comes up to Lukas’ face, another weak sound leaving him as Lukas begins licking his hand clean. “Are you fine here? Or should I move us? I think this bed’s done for.”

Aleksander somehow manages to laugh.

-

In the morning, still sore, aching, and injured—after a nap Aleksander had healed himself again, but he hadn’t done as much as someone else would have—he makes his way downstairs in Lukas’ clothes. He enters the kitchen to discover he’s not the only one awake. Alina’s sitting at the long table that fills up half the space, while Mikkel is at the stove.

Aleksander’s focus zeroes in on Alina, who appears to be only wearing a thick robe. Not that it does much to hide the mass of bites and bruises on her neck. Without thought he goes to her, wrapping his arms around her and bending down to kiss the nape of her neck. “Good morning.” Touching her he can catalog the rest of her injuries, the whole of her torso and thighs seeming to be one giant bruise, he eases some of the soreness, but doesn’t heal her completely.

She arches slightly, letting him see her face, and the satisfaction in her golden eyes. “Good morning, Sasha. I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did.”

He smiles back. “I did,” he answers, taking the spot next to her. She turns her face to him and he gives her a true kiss, when he pulls away he smiles again, resting his head on her shoulder—which gives him a lovely view down the front of the robe, and the bite marks on the sides of her breast.

“Good,” she answers with a pleased hum. She kisses the top of his head. “I do dearly love you, Sasha, but I will say it was nice for a change to take instead of give.”

From the stove Mikkel snorts, turning enough for Aleksander to see bloody furrows down the front of his pale brown chest where his shirt gapes. “Seems to me that you gave as good as you got.”

“Only until you’d pinned me against the wall, Mik.” Alina squirms in a way Aleksander knows well. He finds himself tempted to slip under the table and take care of it for her, nevermind anyone could walk in at any moment. “After that I was all smiles.” She flutters her lashes.

Mikkel snorts. “Dangerous smiles,” he mutters fondly as he turns his attention back to whatever he’s cooking—bacon from the smell.

Delighted laughter leaves Alina. “I dare say we’re all dangerous, _sobachka_, in various ways.”

Aleksander isn’t the only one to still, if perhaps Mikkel’s reason is different from Aleksander’s own.

Mikkel steps away from the oven and stalks over to them, to Alina. Aleksander lets himself be jostled to the side. _Watching_ as Mikkel pins Alina between his arms and against the table. “I am most certainly _not_ a puppy, _kleine zon_.”

It is a strange thing to watch Alina go limp against him, arching her neck and letting out a breathy sigh. Aleksander knows it’s not a weakness to submit, but to see her do it is unusual after so long. He is not the one she’ll ever submit to after all. It’s not quite jealousy that rumbles inside him, but certainly something dark and possessive.

“_Gonchaya_ then?” There’s a teasing note in her voice now. “I dare say you fucked me like one.”

Mikkel gives a deep, satisfied laugh; one that rumbles through Aleksander like thunder.

He finds himself contemplating what sin he might need to commit to warrant the punishment of being made to watch them; or what miracle might give him that reward.

Footsteps approach from down the hall, ones Aleksander recognizes as Lukas’. He doesn’t turn around, but he finds himself aware of the man as he approaches from behind, the warmth of him growing the closer he gets to Aleksander. “Good morning,” Lukas murmurs into his hair. Hand settling on Aleksander’s left shoulder and squeezing the wound there.

Pain washes through him and Aleksander bites back the worst of his whimper, but can’t help but sag against Lukas and Alina. Lukas’ laughter echoes his brothers as he steps away to the stove, fiddling with a kettle.

Aleksander lets himself cuddle against Alina, who lets him, watching the brothers as they make breakfast. A few minutes later, Lukas doles out mugs of tea—too much sugar in Aleksander’s, nothing in Alina’s—before setting the table for the others.

Something like peace washes over Aleksander, and he finds himself thanking Alina that he is so blessed.

-

Time begins to pass in it’s way. Aleksander relishes how busy he is: his jeweler’s business is thriving, and he’s been drawn in for more work with the Hounds as well. If not as much as Alina, it’s good for her to have something to do though. Dates with Alina or Lukas, and nights that more often than not run him ragged.

This won’t be one of those nights, but Aleksander can live with it. He’s dressed in one of the severe suits that all the staff at the Kennel wear, meandering through the floor and making sure no one’s tampered with the games.

Eventually his wanderings take him to the far edges, and it’s not hard to spot Fran sitting at her own little table, luring in customers with the promise of knowing their futures.

The strange cards she uses to do so flash across her hands as she shuffles them, drawing the eye in. The images on them are all of Saints, their iconography familiar, even if all their names are not. Fran smiles at him as he stands next to her currently-empty table. “Curious?” Her shuffling grows more elaborate. The Maker, The Dead-Caller, The Mother, all flash before him in her hands.

“No.” He barely manages to hold in his sneer when he spots The Worker, Elizaveta’s face far too serene.

Something must show on his face, however, because Fran arches an eyebrow. “Not your favorite?” She makes the card dance over her fingers, the gilt edging catching the eye. “Or just deriding my fun?” Fran is certainly the strangest of the Hounds, even as she appears to be otherwise.

“Considering the Saint’s War”—although calling it a War had always felt generous in Aleksander’s mind—“does it surprise you?”

Her head tilts, green eyes assessing. “It’s easy to forget you worship Sankta Alina,” she comments. Aleksander just manages to bite back his laughter. The Worker vanishes back into Fran’s deck and, almost as if by magic—he knows some of the tricks Fran is using, but she’s doing them so smoothly that even he can’t spot them—she makes The Sun appear only a few seconds later. Then The Mother, then The Warrior; all three Alinas laid out in front of her. “She must get tired, being so many things.”

Aleksander does laugh this time. “Perhaps,” he agrees. He has never dared to ask, even after a thousand years, if Alina feels something of the worship she receives, if she hears any of the prayers. “She has help, though.” He could hope that if Alina does, she _would_ let him help.

Fran shuffles her deck and flips the top card, The Shadow now laying atop Alina’s cards; unlike the other Saints cards there is no person depicted, only a square of darkness. Aleksander is only a little annoyed by this fact. He has enough ego left that he’d like his face to at least be remembered. He wonders if there are even churches in Old Ravka that bear his likeness anymore; none of the churches to Alina, or at least the ones he’s visited here, have.

“_Sankt_ Bezvezdyn, out of all the Saints, I have to say he’s my favorite,” Fran admits. “Even if that’s still debated in the churches.”

He wasn’t aware of that fact, but her admission also leaves him feeling a little pleased. Even if it’s a title he has not held in quite some time. Her green eyes flick from the cards to the floor of the casino. “Gan’s coming,” she says it almost absently.

Tilting his head in thanks, Aleksander makes himself scarce. Despite the work they’d done together Gan still didn’t like him much. Even Maggie had warmed some, at least to Aleksander, when he’d saved her life a few months ago. But he knows winning over Gan won’t be so easy. He also finds he’s not too overly worried about doing so, Gan’s friendship is not something Aleksander needs, not if the man is good enough to do his work. And Aleksander knows that having dissenters is not always bad, a fact that Mikkel and Lukas seem to know just as well.

-

Aleksander flourishes in a way he has not for a long time. The gangs of Ketterdam are not the politics of Old Ravka, but there is a certain similarity. Gangsters were like spoiled nobles in a way, seeking money and power with the least amount of effort possible. Though not all of them. The likes of the Spinners and Pewters are too new to be as lazy as Greenspits—the Hounds themselves are somewhere in the middle, though Mikkel and Lukas are ambitious.

Unlike before he has Alina to stop him, to keep him from the worst of himself. He trusts that she will step in if he ever goes to far—neither Mikkel or Lukas will, Aleksander is sure. But it is good, to stretch himself like this again, to plot and plan.

Another night Aleksander is working at the casino, when Mikkel nods him off on a break he retreats all the way to the roof, cold air burning his lungs as he stares up at the stars still visible. He finds a half-used pack of jurda cigarettes nestled in one of the chairs stashed here—he doesn’t sit, they’re too wet from the rainstorm the other day.

Leaning against the little used chimney, he pulls a cigarette out and frowns when he realizes he doesn’t have a light.

There’s a faint click of a lighter, and a slim hand is offering him a flame. Something inside him coils in aprehension, but he takes the light, dragging deep before exhaling pale orange smoke. Only then does he turn to see his daughter, lighting her own cigarette.

“Stanislava.”

She looks younger than he can recall her being. Well, she doesn’t appear as a child, but she _does_ appear as if she’d fit right in with the crowds of young men and women below; and not the old woman she seems to have been for centuries. Even if her gray hair and clothes would still make her stand out. She exhales her own smoke, just as gray as the rest of her. “Papa.” Wariness fills her eyes, ready to vanish if he reacts violently, he’s sure.

A part of him wants to, but he is also weary; perhaps if it were her husband and not her, he would attack—he has not forgiven the wind for his part in the last Nikolai’s death. But the rest of him is happy and doesn’t want to ruin it, not even for a daughter he doesn’t know anymore. “Are you here for them?” There is the most important question really, the one that will determine how the rest of this interaction will go.

“No,” she answers, taking another drag. “If I were, I wouldn’t be here. I doubt Ketterdam would survive, if mama didn’t stop you.” It’s perhaps the truth, but before he can say so she continues. “No, Marozk and I have different work here.”

As if in answer the wind blows; in an alley below, Aleksander can hear the sounds of a fight begin, he hopes it doesn't involve the Hounds.

“Stop that,” Stanislava mutters. The wind stops, and as if in apology, when she exhales the smoke curls into fanciful shapes. The sigh she gives destroys them. “Perhaps this is a...warning.”

The words make him tense all over again, if for a different reason. “Why not tell your mother instead?” Alina and Stanislava are still somewhat close, perhaps because Alina is not likely to try and _kill_ Stanislava.

Stanislava gives another sigh, this one more annoyed. “Maybe because I miss you? Maybe because you understood me better than mama, and yet when the time came, she forgave me for what I could not stop, and you didn’t,” anger creeps into her voice. “I want a father again,” her whole body sags, making her appear even younger. “But perhaps that’s too much to ask.”

She turns, but before she can go Aleksander steps towards her, hand resting on her shoulder. “Wait.”

Even after a thousand years, there is still an ache in him. Nikolai’s...first death had hurt, had felt unfair after everything. They had been _happy_, even as Nikolai got older and older. Not that it had stopped Nikolai from being himself, but Aleksander can still recall the first time he’d realized Nikolai would die when Alina and Aleksander would not. How it had terrified. He’d forgotten his own warning, but even if he had remembered he doubted it would have lessened the sting.

Stanislava does stop, but she doesn't turn around either. “I…” He manages to get out. Nikolai’s deaths still ache, but he is also still lost in the throes of new love, of happiness he hasn’t had in a long time. He knows that Mikkel and Lukas will one day die, they’re _otkazat'sya_, and criminals at that. But he can hope, hope that this is the last time. That whatever...Nikolai is doing, this is the end. That what Stasya told Alina ages ago wasn’t just false hope. “I, I can try.”

His daughter turns, a faint smile on her face—no tears, but he hadn’t expected there to be. “That’s all I want, papa.” She pulls away, as if sensing he needs space, but doesn’t try to leave again.

“You…” Aleksander doesn’t quite know how to say what he wants. “You’re different than I remember.” Diplomatic enough. She’s only his daughter, not another gang boss he’s trying to manipulate.

Her smile grows, and she finishes off her cigarette, the embers in the paper dying at her touch. “Ketterdam doesn’t see death the same way Ravka does,” she shrugs. “Especially here.” Her hair dances on a breeze that Aleksander can’t feel at all. “You should see me in Fjerda.” Her nose wrinkles. “I look like one of those old springmaidens, bah.” She lights another cigarette.

A huff leaves him, the thought of his daughter being so religiously inclined vaguely amusing. None of them really had after Elizaveta, if ever at all. He grinds out his own cigarette. “Should I be worried about your mother or I?” Not that the way people see Alina has changed much over the years, but his certainly has—but he hasn’t yet become a patch of darkness.

“No,” she answers. “I became an aspect of something that already exists, you and mama are different.” Again when she exhales her smoke curls into fanciful shapes. She shakes her head. “You should be careful, you and mama both.” Right, she had mentioned a warning. “Things are going to be changing here soon.”

“War?” There haven’t been rumblings. Kerch choosing to remain mostly neutral in the rest of the world’s conflicts. And the rest of the world letting them, even after all the centuries the wealth of Kerch wasn’t something one turned away.

Stasya looks down at the people milling around below them. “No,” she says again. “Something worse.”

-

Aleksander might not have understood his daughter’s warning, but he did mention it to Alina.

Two weeks pass, before it begins.

The stories trickle through slowly. Mentions of people getting sick and dying, the _Stad_ being more alert than usual, of how a cousin of a friend said the Council was worried.

Everyone agrees, though, that it was only a matter of time before plague returned to Ketterdam.

-

“A healer?” Mikkel leans back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You’ve been holding out on us, Aleksander,” his tone is mild.

Someone else would be worried by that tone, Aleksander is only certain. “Has it truly been that important until now? None of you have been so injured that I would have had to step in. Anyways,”—he fights back a blush—“Lukas already knew.”

Mikkel snorts. “Should’ve guessed, you never were half as injured as you should’ve been. Not with Luk involved.” Yes, Aleksander has seen Lukas’ work on the few the Hounds have handed that punishment too. “Well, I guess I should be glad you didn’t hold it back now, not that Luk would’ve let you.” No, which was part of why Aleksander has stepped forward on his own on that front. "Is there anything you need? Something we should get you?"

The question isn't one Aleksander expects, but he shakes his head. "I'm Grisha, I don't need anything, just rest and food afterwards." Alina will certainly make sure he gets enough of that, and will make sure no one tries to overexert him.

"Good to know," Mikkel's voice is distracted. "Healers seem to be a rare thing these days, even with all the Grisha I've met."

Aleksander blinks in surprise. Healers being rare? He'd certainly never heard of such a thing. But it's not something he can focus on now, not with plague threatening everything he's ever cared about. "I would like to go to a morgue, examine one of the victims firsthand."

Mikkel nods. "Take Gan, he can get you in."

"Alright." Aleksander can deal with it.

-

Gan stands behind him, thankfully not watching him, but keeping lookout. "This would have been helpful earlier," it's about the third time the man's said it since they'd arrived at the morgue.

Aleksander rolls his eyes. "It wasn't necessary," he's going to stand by that. The Hounds are good, injuries were rare, at least none that required a true Healer's attention. "Now shut up and let me focus, please."

Thankfully Gan does. Breathing deep Aleksander reaches out for the dead body on the slab in front of him. It's not the same as what Stasya could once do, but healing sometimes required the dead.

The virus causing the plague is easy enough to isolate, to learn how it acts—even if he'll need to test it out on a live person just to be sure—how to help the body defeat it. The true test will come when the first Hound becomes infected, but preparation is all he can do for now.

-

Alina curls up next to him in bed, Lukas on his other side. It's not typical at all for the three of them. But with Mikkel out of Ketterdam—having risked his life to get out, Ketterdam closed once more to the rest of the world—on work, Alina wanted the companionship. Which Lukas is fine with, so long as nothing goes beyond kisses.

She sighs, her fingers absently trailing scars both old and new. "I'd forgotten how awful this was."

Lukas huffs, but Aleksander knows he's just as worried for his brother. "He'll be back soon," his tells her. "Hate it when something like this fucks up everything else."

Now Aleksander's the one who huffs. "Not something any of us can control," he reminds. Although he'd once thought it possible. Perhaps if he and Alina were more like their daughter, but they are as they are, and he doubts that will change. Turning his head he nuzzles Lukas' shoulder. "He'll be fine, and if he catches the plague then I can heal him."

Lukas lets out a slow breath, while Alina smiles against Aleksander's shoulder. "Still will worry, just like you, yes?" His question is aimed at Alina.

"Even when I can see him, I worry," she replies tartly. "He should be grateful I already have white hair."

Lukas laughs.

-

Mikkel does return, smuggled goods in tow. It's perhaps not the smartest thing to risk himself for such a small haul, but the people outside of Ketterdam that he works with aren't as understanding as those inside the city when there's a plague going on.

But it turns out it’s not Mikkel any of them should have been worried about.

Only a few days after Mikkel returns, they're all sitting around the kitchen table, enjoying a more meager than usual dinner, when Fran nearly doubles over in a coughing fit. Blood splattering everywhere.

Everyone freezes.

Aleksander doesn't let himself stay frozen for long however. It's surprisingly easy to fall back into something he hasn't done in quite some time. "Get her on the ground, careful touching her," he directs this at Gan and Lukas. "Everyone else clear out." His eyes flick to Gan and Lukas as they settle Fran on the floor. "You both too." The fewer people he has to deal with, the better; less chance of anyone else getting infected either.

Gan does leave, but Maggie sits herself next to Fran, expression stubborn. "If you think I'm leaving my sister, I'm going to stab you,” she tells him.

He decides to let it go, just like he doesn't question Alina staying—he doubts she'll get sick anyways. He does frown at Lukas and Mikkel, however. "Go."  
They both give him identical looks. "We're not going," Lukas answers.

"She's one of ours," Mikkel continues, as if that should be answer enough.

Aleksander makes an annoyed sound, but doesn't argue any further. Fran's more important. He sits next to Maggie, and sets his hands on Fran's chest. Closing his eyes he moves from himself into her, putting her to sleep, seeking out the damage already done, healing that first as best he can. "There's blood in her lungs," he manages to say. "I'm going to expel it, so be careful."

Thankfully Alina moves Fran onto her side before she starts coughing it all up, the puddle of blood larger than Maggie seems happy with. But it's not as if Aleksander can control that.

This time he doesn't let Alina settle Fran back on her back, instead propping Fran up so that she's resting on his legs. "I don't know how long this is going to take." Illness wasn't injury, it took longer, more effort.

"I don't care," Maggie tells him sharply. "Just heal my sister."

Aleksander takes a deep breath, and throws himself into the war.

It's harder than he remembers, the ebb and flow of the virus different than most he's faced. But he knows it enough. Slowly he works through her, methodically going through each blood vessel, doing his best to make sure there's nothing untoward lurking in the nooks and crannies.

Warm hands are pressing against his cheeks. "Sasha," Alina's voice is annoyed. "You need to take a break," her tone brooks no argument.

Standing...takes more strength than Aleksander realized, his knees a little wobbly as he rises up. He's grateful Lukas appears at his side, offering a shoulder to lean on. "Come on, lovely, a few times around the kitchen I think. Then something to eat." Aleksander doesn't fight, letting Lukas lead him around. He keeps an eye on Fran, Alina and Maggie cleaning her up a little while Aleksander takes his break. Mikkel sits at the table, expression one of intense focus, as if that by itself will be enough to save Fran. Aleksander wishes that were the case.

He does manage some water and sweet bread—it doesn't surprise him when that's what Alina shoves at him, she knows him too well. Feeling a little better he settles back down and begins again.

The virus has taken back some ground, but Aleksander reconquers it easily, making headway into new territory. On and on it goes. Alina makes him take two more breaks as time passes, each one feeling harder and harder, but he takes them.

Aleksander doesn't know how much time has passed, only that he's tired. And that Fran, as far as he can tell, is cured.

He sags against Alina. "She should wake up soon," he croaks.

Alina and Lukas help him up. "We're getting you to bed," she tells him.

"You did good, lovely," Lukas agrees.

Mikkel takes up vigil next to Maggie, his hand resting on the woman's shoulder as they wait.

The bed he gets shoved into is the most comfortable bed he's ever felt. It's only seconds later he's falling asleep.

-

A few days later and Fran is her old self, Aleksander is too. It spurs a brief celebration, if one that's more subdued.

The days turn into weeks and a few other Hounds grow sick, but Aleksander manages to heal them too. Even as others in the Rood District, and Ketterdam as a whole, fall sick and die. It doesn't matter, Aleksander knows he can't save everyone, not without spending his own life at least.

Which doesn't stop others from banging the door of the Hound's main hideaway, having heard rumors about a Healer. Mikkel turns them away, even when offered money.

"I start letting them in they won't stop," he makes an annoyed sound. "Got enough trouble as it is."

The Council does manage to find its own cure, but it's slow to trickle down to the rest of the populace.

Which means the attack on the house shouldn't be that surprising.

One moment everything's fine, the next the back door is broken down, a small crowd of men and women rushing in. Their faces are covered, but Aleksander knows they're here for him—even if they don't know who the healer might be.

Lukas leaps into action, his knife glittering in the light Alina throws at the would be attackers. Maggie soon follows, Fran too. Gan doesn't jump into the fray, instead setting himself next to Mikkel and Aleksander, as intent on keeping both of them out of the fight, as he is keeping anyone else who might escape the others from reaching the two of them.

It feels like the fight's just begun when it's over. The invaders dead, and the Hounds mostly uninjured. Alina toes at a body. "They're not all from one gang," she comments.

Fran and Maggie both crouch, taking off the masks—Komedie masks, the cheap sort you find tourists buying. "Greenspits, and Pewters too."

"George from the Spinners," Maggie adds.

Mikkel looks unhappy about that. "It looks like we're all going to have to have a long conversation then, once the plague's gone."

Aleksander doesn't pity the other bosses.

-

Curled up with bed in Lukas, Aleksander feels relief of a sort. Things are finally getting back to normal in Ketterdam, or as normal as it gets.

Through the open window he can hear the Stad combing through the street, corpse-takers following after, doing their best to keep the streets clean of the dead now that the plague is starting to fade. They won't step into the hideout however, not after the bribes Mikkel's paid.

Lukas' hand lazily stroking Aleksander's cock brings him right back to the other man. "Don't like it when you're not thinking about me, lovely." The man's expression is too dangerous to be called a smile.

"Then perhaps you should do something about it," Aleksander replies tartly. Enjoying being so cheeky for a moment, knowing what it will get him.

"Oh, I will, lovely." Lukas' hand grasps painfully hard, clearly having no problem using Aleksander's cock to tug him closer. "You'll be hoarse by the time I'm done, I think."

Alekander can't wait.

-

Aleksander sits across the street from Lukas and Alina, watching them with Maggie. It is strange, watching them as they do their best to lure out their would-be target. They play so well together at this little deception. It almost makes Aleksander dwell on 'what-ifs.' Even if Lukas wouldn’t like it.

Alina drinks from her coffee, a broad smile on her lips, head tilting back as she laughs at something Lukas tells her. They seem the perfect picture of a normal pair of men—even if Alina is pushing it, her hair grown longer, and her still too-feminine laugh—enjoying a summer’s day in a plague-free city.

“You know,” Maggie’s voice is far too conversational. “Most would find it a little disturbing how moon-eyed you get. It’s like swinging an anise rope in front of a child.”

“Only in Ketterdam do children think anise ropes are sweets,” Aleksander replies airily. Not sweet enough by half in his mind. “So? Fran can be just as strange, nevermind how Lukas can get.”

Maggie sniffs. “My sister is touched, but we know how to manage it.” Yes, he knows full well Fran can’t go out with Lukas unless there’s someone else to keep them from doing anything too...violent. “And Lukas...well, if Fran’s touched, sometimes I wonder if he has a soul.” Her gaze turns to the man himself.

His hackles rise, disliking that suggestion whole-heartedly. “Does it matter?” He can feel the shadows flickering behind him at his cool, deadly, tone.

She stills at the question, but like a predator would, not prey. “In our line of work? No. I know full well the history of Ketterdam’s gangs are full of monsters just like him. Getting moon-eyed over your wife, I understand it, but even after three years seeing you do it to Lukas is just… I once saw him pop a man’s eyes out of their sockets, then force that man to walk back to his boss, eyeballs just...hanging.” She shudders. “I trust him to take care of me, but I’m just glad none of that’s pointed at _me_.”

He’s still wary, but he does laugh a little at her words. “Perhaps I’m as much of a monster as he is.” Perhaps even more of one, some days at least.

Her eyes turn to him, assessing. “If you are, you’re the best actor I’ve ever met.”

Aleksander will take that as a compliment. As interesting as this conversation is, not in the least bit, he spots Samuel Feldt, the Boss of the Spinners, stepping towards Alina and Lukas. “There.”

The plague made a power vacuum, of a sort, and Mikkel hadn’t been lying about wanting revenge for the attack on the Hounds. Feldt’s just going to be the first of many.

-

Not all their attacks are as obvious as the one on the Spinners. Granted the Spinners were new to the game, still not quite established. No one else thought it strange that the Hounds would go after them; let the little fish gobble each other up.

Which is just another part of the plan.

While Aleksander knows he could help with the fighting, he doesn’t. It may have been an age since the last war he was in, but killing people is not something he takes great pleasure in. So he stays on the sidelines, helping make plans and keeping watch over the Hounds other investments.

He _knows_ things are going well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn't worry when Lukas goes out and Aleksander can’t follow.

Aleksander does not pace the room he and Lukas share, but he will admit to feeling antsy, not wanting to lose Lukas sooner than he has to. Footsteps approach as it grows early into the morning.

The door opens and it’s an almost visceral relief to see Lukas, Aleksander doesn’t even care that the other man is covered in blood. “Is any of it yours?” He asks as he goes up to the other man. Lukas at least manages to help undress himself, the soaked clothes splatting against the floor as they fall.

“No,” Lukas murmurs absently. “Maggie and I had to make it look convincing.” Aleksander knows, framing the Greenspits for a massacre wouldn’t be easy after all. The smile Lukas flashes Aleksander is boyish and charming. “The _Stad_ are going to be tripping over themselves tomorrow.”

“Today,” Aleksander corrects as he moves the both of them towards the shower. Lukas nude and covered in blood has it’s expected influence on Aleksander, but he can easily put aside his now aching cock in favor of looking after Lukas.

Once the shower is at the right temperature he shoves Lukas under the spray, joining him. The blood sloughs away, revealing familiar pale brown skin. Even with his focus of cleaning Lukas up, Aleksander can’t help but dip down to kiss the other man’s neck, tongue rasping against a hidden patch of blood. As much as Aleksander is sure they’d both enjoy him cleaning Lukas with his tongue, that’s not quite what he wants tonight.

So he pulls away, grabs the soap, and starts cleaning Lukas’ hair.

Lukas all but purrs at the attention, leaning into Aleksander’s hands, eyes growing heavy-lidded. A look that doesn’t help Aleksander’s own arousal.  
“Such a good man, lovely,” Lukas rumbles as he steps closer. Ducking down into the water to get his hair clean. “Taking such care of me,” his eyes drift lower for a moment, “and enjoying it so much.” His smile turns a little sharper.

Aleksander laughs. “I enjoy everything about you,” he agrees. “Although,” he does his best to adopt Alina’s primness. “I am _not_ good.”

Which draws an answering laugh from Lukas. “No,” he finally answers. Taking another step forward, one that makes Aleksander take a step back—not because he _needs_ to, but because it’s expected. Soon enough Lukas has him all but pinned against the shower wall. “You’re right, you’re not good.” Lukas leans down, his breath tickling Aleksander’s neck. “You’re perfect.”

Knees going weak, Aleksander falls into Lukas.  
-

Alina leans her head against Aleksander’s shoulder as they sit on a park bench and enjoy the warm autumn’s day.

They’re not the only pair out enjoying the day. But the rest of the world hardly matters to Aleksander, not compared to Alina, or Lukas, or perhaps even Mikkel. Right now though he doesn’t have to think about that, only enjoy the weather, and his wife.

Her sigh tickles his neck. “I’d forgotten how nice this is,” she sounds sleepy and content—a fact that vaguely amuses him considering it’s broad daylight. “Perhaps coffee, later?” It has been some time since they just spent time like this together, the both of them caught up in various ways, with helping the Hounds revenge.

“Tea,” he replies. “And waffles.” Already he can taste the sweetness on his tongue.

“And waffles,” she replies fondly. “Perhaps we should try and hire a chef to cook you nothing but sweets.” When he glances down at her he sees her eyes glinting with mischief.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with them the rest of the time,” he answers, feeling a faint blush across his cheeks. “Anyways, what would Mikkel say?” He’s grateful fond teasing fills his own voice. He does like the idea of being spoiled so, but he is already so loved and embraced, that more feels like gross excess.

“The Hounds _would_ talk,” she replies airly. “But I’m sure they’d all enjoy it. Even if Maggie does like anise ropes,” she makes the appropriate face. “We could all use a bit more sweetness in our lives at the moment, I think.”

Not caring who might be watching, Aleksander turns his head and kisses the top of hers. “Then perhaps we should stop by a sweet shop on the way back to the house, get something for everyone.”

“It is adorable when you think so kindly to others,” it’s gentle teasing though. “We should,” she agrees as an afterthought.

“So glad you enjoy my kindness, _solnishka_.”

-

Walking arm in arm is perhaps a little harder when they’re both carrying large boxes of sweets, but somehow the two of them manage—if Alina wouldn’t frown at him for it, he’d call it a miracle. He’s sure they’re quite the sight, but he also finds he doesn’t care.

As they get closer to the house, Aleksander realizes he can smell smoke. Not _fully_ a strange smell, though most heat their houses with things other than fire these days. He spares a brief glance at Alina, that her expression is as worried as his own is not good. Together they hurry, shoving through people as the crowd gets thicker.

The house is on fire.

Aleksander does not think.

The fire does not want to bend to his will, but his is ancient, and it is only fire.

Far too slowly the fire dies. Soon there’s enough open space for the two of them to rush in. Alina bending the heat away away from them as he continues to smother the fire, which goes slower as he does his best to check for heartbeats.

There are none, not even as they get up higher, a fact that makes Aleksander anxious. He does his best to shove it aside, it won’t help him here.

A heartbeat, and he almost breathes a sigh of relief.

He leads Alina to the room, and they burst in. It’s almost no surprise at all that it is Mikkel. Injured, but alive.

Aleksander gives up on trying to contain the fire, or finding other, focusing on healing Mikkel’s broken legs. Even through his focus he can hear Alina and Mikkel speak, however.

“What happened?”

Mikkel coughs—Aleksander pauses in his healing to circulate fresh air—but does his best not to move, thankfully. “Greenspits,” his voice is raspy from the smoke. “Bastards came out of nowhere, took Maggie and Lukas, I don’t know about the others.”

Aleksander freezes, and it takes all his self-control to not get up right there and then and go after Lukas. He forces himself to finish healing Mikkel, help the other man up, bring him over to Alina.

He feels infinitely still and calm as Alina takes the other man.

“Get Lukas,” she tells him, her eyes blinding as sunlight off ice. “Whatever it takes.”

-

_Nich'voya_ and shadows swarm around him as he enters the Greenspit’s casino. The civilians wisely take one look at him and run screaming the other way. The Greenspits aren’t so wise, not that he’d let any of them escape if they were.

Aleksander doesn’t even have to say anything, his _nich'voya_ going after every Greenspit he can see, and more than a few that he can’t.

Soon enough he’s the only living person in the casino.

He exits. It’s not a spark, but the snap of his fingers creates enough heat and energy for him to make a flame. Fire consuming the casino even faster than it had the Hound’s home. It doesn’t even matter that he has the whole attention of the Rood district, that most people have run screaming, while others have fallen to their knees and begun to pray—Sankta Alina won’t be saving anyone right now.

Some sort of warning must have been brought to the Greenspits, because when he reaches their base, they’re armed to the teeth.

Not that it will help them in the slightest. _Otkazat'sya_, even ones armed with guns and flamethrowers, are no match for him. Wind, fire, water from the canals, shadows, _nich'voya_, become a maelstrom of death; Greenspits dying like flies. He knows he could kill them as a Heartrender, but it would not be half as satisfying as this.

He finds Lukas, Fran and Maggie too, in the basement; bloody and thoroughly beaten. He frees the two women, even if it’s more of an afterthought to Lukas sprawled and unmoving on the floor. “Go.”

Both women stare at him wide-eyed. “_Sankt_ Bezvezdny,” Fran sounds almost breathless. She lets her sister lead her out though.

Aleksander knees next to Lukas’ prone form. For all his earlier ruthlessness, his hands tremble as he reaches out. Afraid to know the truth, uncertainty a sort of awful comfort in the face of what he sees. Yet his finger still touch Lukas’ cheek.

Dead.

An unholy sound tears it’s way out of Aleksander’s throat, his _nich'voya_ silently echoing him.

He says nothing, but the _nich'voya_ know what he wants. Pouring out of him and away, intent on the death of every Greenspit that lives in Ketterdam.

Gently he scoops Lukas up, cradling the body to his chest. Wishing there were a way, _any_ way. But he knew too well now that not even _merzost_ could bring the dead back to life.

Feeling every one of his two thousand years, Aleksander makes his way out of the Greenspits hideout, feeling it catch fire behind him as soon as he steps into the street. He finds himself unsurprised to see Alina and Mikkel on the other side of the street, their faces carved deep with grief as he goes to them.

They pull him and Lukas to them. And in their embrace Aleksander lets himself finally cry.

-

The funeral is a small affair, himself, Alina, Mikkel, Fran and Maggie, and Gan—the only Hounds still alive—and a priest of _Sankta_ Alina to make the blessings.

When it’s all over they make the short journey back into Ketterdam proper, Aleksander all but able to taste the fear in the air. No one, outside of those around him, knows the truth of the _nich'voya._ He’s heard tell of more people finding themselves in churches, praying to anyone that might hear that they be spared the fate of death by shadow.

Eventually, Alina and Mikkel guide him away from the others and towards the shop. The air tastes stale as they enter, but he hardly notices as they take him upstairs.

A few days pass in a blink, and even with Alina and Mikkel’s care—and their shared grief—Aleksander realizes he can’t stay in Ketterdam anymore.

He doesn’t even tell Alina, she might insist on coming with him, afraid of what he might do. She deserves to have a bit more happiness; she should not cut her own time with Nikolai short just because Aleksander can’t stand to live in a city.

He’ll leave her breadcrumbs, just like the last time, so that she can follow when she’s ready.

So he wakes in the early morning, dresses without light, grabs the bag full of all the things he’ll need for this first leg of his trip, and steps out of his bedroom.

Only to see Alina sitting at the kitchen table, a small ball of light in her hands illuminating her softly. “Were you going to say goodbye?”

An aching sound leaves him as he goes to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, resting his cheek in her hair. “I thought it better you didn’t know until after I’d gone,” he doesn’t try to hide the grief in his voice.

“Sasha,” she sighs. “I know you too well, even when you try you can’t hide anything from me.” A fact that had stung, long ago. “I know you need this, which is why I’m not going to stop you. But I do want to know where you are going.”

“Ulla,” he answers. “Perhaps it’s time I tried to see her as a sister instead of a tool.”

Alina lets out a huff of laughter. “Perhaps,” she agrees. Dislodging him she turns her head up. “Kiss me, then you can go.”

He doesn’t kiss her like it is the last time they’ll ever kiss, because he knows it will not, but it is a kiss of farewells, of long parting and uncertain reunions.

When they break apart she says nothing more, only watches him as he leaves through the door.

-

Stepping off the airship and onto Fjerdian soil is freeing in a way. It has been so very long since he was last in the country, experienced the pervading chill—even now in late summer—mingled with the people who had once so uniformly despised his own.

Aleksander breathes deep of the cool air and joins the crowd leaving the airport and into Elling proper.

Just like when he’d climbed the Elbjin, he knows he’ll have to prepare for his trip northward. At least this time there won’t be any mountains to contend with.

He follows the Stelge east, a boat would have been faster, but he wants to be around as few people as possible, solitude making the grief easier in a way. So he walks the roads, keeping his head down and paying no mind to the cars that race past in either direction.

It does take longer, but he’s fine with that too, reaching Gäfvalle, a now thriving city in and of itself, after a few weeks. He doesn’t plan on staying, only to restock; yet he finds himself being drawn to the south, eventually finding himself in a quiet park.

In the center of which is a tree of white. In the centuries since he’d last seen it some bold artist has carved a curvaceous woman into the trunk. Once perhaps she had been Nina Zenik, but now her features have been worn away by time and endless touches of pilgrims, so that she could be any generously shaped woman.

Sitting on one of the nearby benches is Staysa, seeming to watch the pilgrims praying or leaving offerings under the bone tree with fond amusement. She does indeed look like some Springmaiden of old, gray hair braided and pinned into a crown, gray dress simple and almost shapeless on her.

“Papa.” She tilts her head in greeting.

He all but falls onto the bench next to her, grief somehow weighing harder. “If I asked why it had to be this way, would I even get an answer?”

Her gaze returns to the pilgrims. “Because this is the way it’s done?” She shrugs. “I am the face of death, papa, all things living are alien to me, after a fashion. Better for you to go ask _Sankta_ Nina herself to petition the dead for answers, you might actually get a reply.”

“You know my thoughts on Saints,” he responds.

Her arched eyebrow is pointed. “Well, their ways are even more alien to me than the living, I was at least alive for a time.”

He’s perhaps a little grateful she doesn’t bring up the fact he does worship Alina, but he feels certain that even if she hadn’t been raised to sainthood he would still worship her. Her sainthood is incidental to him. In regards to anyone else, he’s known far too many Grisha who are now called Saints to believe they have any power after death.

“I do not like it, regardless of how it’s supposed to be.” Three times now he’s experienced true loss. He doesn’t want there to be a fourth, or fifth.

Much to his surprise he feels her arm wrap around his shoulders, not a complete hug—nor, perhaps as comforting as Stasya would wish it to be—but that she tries when extended physical contact discomfits her says quite a lot. “I know, papa. But change comes slowly to the world, that I do know.”

He doesn’t quite know what to make of that, but perhaps he doesn’t have to know.

-

He continues east for a little while longer, before finally turning north.

After only a few days he is alone on the roads, not many Fjerdans are willing to endure _this_ much cold year round, even if they would tell visitors otherwise.

Finally though he comes to the Isenvee, and just barely over the horizon he can see Kenst Hjert.

Setting his pack down he pulls out an ax, and goes hunting for suitable wood.

A few hours work later he’s got a passable boat and paddles. After a few tests to make sure it’s waterproof and leak free, he pushes off. Soon fighting the choppy waters as he tries to get to the islands. It gets a little easier when he starts to affect the water just around him.

Even so it still takes him well past nightfall to finally reach the nearer of the two islands.

When he does land he stumbles onto shore, leaving his boat to it’s fate and heading only a little ways inland before collapsing in a heap and falling asleep.

He wakes up covered in frost.

Shivering he starts rubbing his hands together, spreading the heat generated through his body—the closest he’s ever been to mimicking Alina’s own powers, if poorly. He eats the last of his dried supplies and continues north, bound for the far end of the island.

It’s nightfall again by the time he reaches it. Gathering what little driftwood he can find he makes a fire, the colorful flames casting eerie light over everything. Pulling out his knife he goes to the shore’s edge, the surf soaking into his clothes as he kneels. He hisses in pain as he cuts the back of his arm—he might enjoy pain, but only when it’s given to him by loving hands. Another hiss leaves him as he plunges that arm into the icy waters.

“I wish to speak with you, Ulla, sister mine.” He leaves his bleeding arm in the water for a few moments before pulling it out and leaving the water, making sure to dry himself off as best he can before healing. Settling himself next to the fire he waits.

Aleksander loses track of time, even with the moon rising above him to join the stars, but he knows it’s late when he hears a strange sound in the white noise of the ocean.

Cupping his hands together he gathers up a flame, the heat of it helping to warm him as he returns to the water’s edge. The blue-green of the fire catches on gray skin, glitters in midnight eyes, turns black flesh into sapphires and emeralds.

“Sister,” he greets. She looks nothing at all like his memories, but he still knows it’s her. They are of a kind, after all, and as he once told Alina, forever ago, like called to like.

He can’t see it, but he can hear something thrash in the waves. “Apprentice.” It is a sharp bit of cruelty, but it does not surprise him. Kindness was never something they’d given each other.

But that does not mean they cannot. “Aleksander,” he tells her.

-

She lets him remain on the island, somedays she even deigns to speak with him. Which suits him just fine, they can never truly be family, but perhaps something akin to friendship can grow, given enough time. Which is something neither of them lack.

Days and nights become unending blurs: he checks his fishing traps, he crafts things out of sand and bone, sometimes Ulla slithers onto the shore at high tide and they speak of magic and Small Science, of making and creation. There are worse ways to work through his grief.

-

The sound of footsteps approaching one bleak day has him stilling. The human’s recounting of Ulla’s story has largely faded, perhaps one might find it in an old dusty book, but even then Aleksander doubts anyone would think it remotely true. She does not seem to mind that there are no longer pilgrims who come to her seeking her aid, and willing to pay her price.

So someone coming to the island is an unexpected occurrence.

He remains motionless as the sound gets closer, unsure of how he feels to have his self-imposed hermitage ended.

The person comes over the last rise, and he blinks to see Alina, pale and shining, approach him. Without thought he opens his arms for her and she comes, letting him envelope her.

“It is good to see you.” It is, although he did not expect it for some time yet. Or perhaps more time has passed than he believes has, beyond the days getting more, or less, cold, he has no true way of keeping track of days and months. He’s had no urge to either.

She sighs sunlight as she burrows deeper into his embrace. “I missed you,” she replies.

“What happened?” Something must have, for her to come to him. He might not have loved Mikkel as he had Lukas, but the other man’s passing will be another blow for the both of them. One of his hands moves to thread through her hair, fingers gently untangling the loose strands.

Another sigh. “Mikkel sent me away,” she sounds almost bemused by the idea. “He says his ego can’t stand the thought of me thinking him old and decrepit, wants to only be a dashing and handsome criminal forever in my mind.”

Something so very Nikolai, and yet not at all. Even as the first Nikolai had grown older, he’d always declared himself the most good-looking out of all of them. And in a way it had been the truth, love making him so, at least to Alina and Aleksander—Aleksander is sure the others had only fondly humored him. Even on his deathbed, everyone surrounding Nikolai as he took his last breaths, he’d been handsome in a way that made Aleksander ache.

“I’m sorry,” he kisses the top of her head. His tears turning to frost against his cheeks.

“I know.” She holds him tighter still. “It will be worth it right?” The doubt in her voice shatters his heart.

He reaches down to tilt her head up, leaning his own down to kiss away her own damp tears. “It will.” He doesn’t want to know if he’s telling the truth or lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not sure when the next chapter will be out (if the pattern holds out sometime in late Jan/early Feb??)
> 
> So you'll eventually see: everyone living in a submarine (but definitely not a yellow one), the world’s worst marriage ‘proposal,’ and _raises a waring finger_ **language**.
> 
> In the meantime I'm always around to chat on Tumblr.


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